Neon Moon
by nosleep3
Summary: New Moon A/U. Abandoned by the Cullens, Bella emerges from depression with a wall around her heart and a chip on her shoulder. Closed off and immersed in her college studies, she finds her emotional outlet in a surprising source.
1. 1 2006

_**Neon Moon**_

May 2006

Charlie's Kitchen

Forks, WA

"Bella, sweetie, why don't you come home this summer?"

Every Tuesday at 6:00 my time, unless she'd enrolled in a class on cake decorating or Tai Chi or some such crap, Renee called me and begged me to move to Florida. It was the closest she'd ever come to keeping a schedule that wasn't work-related, something that was almost impressive, but I was getting tired of having this conversation in general, and now was an especially bad time. I'd just come home from work—Mrs. Newton let me off a little early today—and I was trying to fix Charlie's supper and study for my three remaining exams at the same time.

"Mom," I sighed, "I've visited you in Jacksonville all of once since you moved there last year. It's not my home."

"You know what I mean," she said, giggling slightly to cover her discomfort. "It would be nice to have you home—with me, I mean—for the summer before you start college. And just think, if you enroll at JU, you won't even have to live in a dorm. You'll have your own room with your own bathroom and no roommate…"

Yeah right, no roommate. I'd have to cook for her and Phil every day, because Lord knew her cooking was completely inedible, and Phil's culinary skills were about as advanced as Charlie's last time I checked. And I'd have to clean, not only this extra bathroom that for some reason she'd been touting as the Holy Grail of living with her since she first moved in, but her bathroom too, and probably most of the house. And I'd get roped into whatever hobbies my mother felt like taking up, and I'd have to sit and listen to her overshare about her marriage and how _fabulous_ it was, as if I couldn't hear the evidence through the walls like I had nearly every night of this year's ill-advised Spring Break. _And_ I knew if I went to stay with her, she'd hear me cry on those occasional mornings when the nightmares came back, and she'd want to talk about that, too. At least Charlie didn't make me discuss it.

"I already told you," I interrupted her before she could wax poetic about the Atlantic Ocean, as if I didn't already live within driving distance of the sea, "I've been accepted to UBC in Vancouver. It wasn't the only school I was looking at, but it's the best choice for me. They're one of the top fifty universities in the _world_, they're offering me the best scholarship, and they have an excellent anthropology program."

Gone were my old desires to be an English major. For one thing, Mr. Berty had gently informed me that I shouldn't pursue that course unless I really wanted to learn more than I would ever wish to know about grammar. But more importantly, it just seemed like a waste of time and money. I still loved books, but honestly, how many critiques were there of Jane Austen's work, and what good did writing another one do for anyone, anywhere, ever? How was I supposed to find refuge in a novel if I was too busy analyzing it to death and writing 4000-word papers on it? Exactly what career options was I looking at with a degree in literature besides teaching, anyway? No, it was better to make a study of people and their cultures—something real, something that meant I wouldn't be stuck sitting at a desk for the rest of my life, something that could take me to new, wonderful places. Maybe most people didn't think of Canada as anything special in regards to world travel, but everything I'd read promised that there was vibrant life there. It could be the first of many stepping stones for me.

"Besides," I went on, taking a breath before I dropped my bombshell. "I didn't get into Jacksonville University."

"What!" Renee shrieked. "How…how can you get a scholarship from the west coast of nowhere and not even be accepted at JU?"

I rolled my eyes, as I so often did when having any kind of dialogue with my mother. "Because," I replied quietly, not responding to her slight, "I didn't apply."

Renee was quiet for several seconds. I knew better than to speak at this point, so I stood patiently at the kitchen counter, sitting the phone down beside me so that I could chop tomatoes and look at my Spanish notes. Three, two, one…

"_Why the hell not?_"

I waited out her tirade, her annoying little tantrum, as she claimed emotional injury, insult, and rights of motherhood. That last part was nearly enough to rile me up, but I kept quiet and reiterated the real truth to myself. For almost six months I'd wallowed in unspoken grief without Renee's help until finally I gathered enough strength to quit feeling sorry for myself and stop screaming every damn morning. In the last two and a half months I'd finally been able to make myself act like a human being—set personal goals, plan things, carry on conversations again, _eat full meals_—all without needing or expecting anything from her. I didn't need a mom anymore, and even if I did, I was wise enough to realize she wasn't capable of being that for me.

Renee kept up her fit for a few more minutes while I read my study sheet and sliced cucumbers and carrots (_pepinos y zanahorias_), shredded up the Romaine lettuce (_lechuga de Roma_), tossed everything together with almonds (_almendras_) and raspberry vinaigrette (_lo chinga, no sabia las palabras_). Finally, when she started sounding winded, I lifted the phone back to my ear.

"Are you done yet?" I asked, irritated with the ceaseless vexation. "Because I have AP exams and finals to study for, and you're wasting my time."

"No I'm not _done yet_. Is this about That Boy?" My parents were both aware of the root cause of my depression, and neither one was particularly forgiving. But Charlie didn't bring it up every five damn minutes and accuse me of making every decision around it. "If you don't want to be anywhere close to reminders of Him, you can do that easily from here," she continued. "You don't have to leave the freaking country. There are _plenty_ of good-looking boys in Florida."

Another eye roll. "Renee, for god's sake, would you stop acting like a fourteen-year-old girl and conduct yourself like an adult?"

Silence. Perfect—she always hated it when I compared her to the spoiled child she was at heart, and the reminder invariably stopped her mouth, as though by keeping silent she could prove she was a grown-up. It gave me time to make my point.

"This is how it's going to be," I informed her. "I am going to stay in Forks this summer. I already have a job, and the busy season is starting, which means I might even be able to make some commission, not just an hourly wage. I am going to enroll in the school of my choice, and that happens to be the University of British Columbia. I am going to do this without regard to your wishes, because I'm an adult, because it's my decision, and most of all, because you are not contributing one penny to my education. You never thought to save up for me, and I certainly don't expect Phil to chip in—it's not fair to him. I have spent the last year working, scrimping, and saving for this. Even Charlie isn't supporting me financially. I want this, I earned this, and I'm damn well going to do it my way. Is that clear?"

Renee huffed. "Crystal."

My father arrived at home fifteen minutes later. In an attempt to ease my burden a little, Charlie brought home pizza to go with my salad, and we ate dinner in our usual silence. It wasn't the companionable kind of quiet we once shared, back when I first came to live with him and we were figuring each other out. These days I took the 'less is more' policy and ran with it, maintaining an indifferent façade that allowed me to peacefully go on and removed from Charlie any responsibility to ask personal questions he probably didn't want to know the real answers to. This time, however, my dad was a little more tuned in than usual, and my neutral front wasn't quite up to par between the year-end stress and my argument with Renee.

"What's wrong?" he asked, looking at the books I had spread out around my plate. "I thought your Spanish was pretty good last time you had to translate for me. Are you worried about your test?"

Aside from the fact that I grew up in Arizona, in a section of Phoenix where it was impossible not to learn Spanish unless you were deliberately avoiding it, learning languages came easily to me, and I liked it. I found it a useful tool, particularly when Charlie needed help with the local immigrant population, which was enjoying a recent surge thanks to the logging industry. It was kind of embarrassing having to translate _'fuck your mama' _to my own dad, but Charlie took it in stride, and the _abuelitas_ were nice to me, especially when they realized the chief didn't care about their immigration status. Best of all, unlike the English-speaking residents of Forks, they didn't stare at me with eyes full of pity or call me _pobrecita_.

"It's not that," I sighed in answer. Dad's eyes were kind and concerned, so I decided to be honest for a change. "I had a fight with Mom about not applying for college in Jacksonville. She seems to think I should go to a beachfront school on the East Coast because of all the eye candy. For some reason she believes 'boy crazy' is a healthy attitude for a girl my age. Like that's appropriate criteria for selecting a university." I rolled my eyes for my father's benefit and turned back to my notes on conjugating verbs to future tense.

Charlie thumped his fork on his plate a few times and cleared his throat. With another sigh, I stopped looking at my binder and focused my attention on the croutons in my salad bowl, waiting.

"I'm fine with wherever you want to go to school, Bella. That's entirely your choice, and your mother has no right to pressure you." Clearly, Charlie knew her old tricks. "But I do think she may have a point about you moving forward in…other areas of your life."

"Not you, too," I scowled, meeting his eyes. "Who am I supposed to see, Dad? I've lived here for a year and a half. If I was interested in any of the boys in town, don't you think I'd have gone out with one of them by now?"

"What about on the rez?" Charlie suggested, though his voice was low and hesitant.

"I've seen them, too," I replied succinctly, looking down at my notes again. "Now can we please drop it?"

"There's always Jake," Charlie whispered. "He's always had a thing for you." Because he whispered, I knew my dad was expecting a bad reaction. Maybe even hoping for it, if it meant I'd show even one shred of emotion. Too bad I wasn't interested in obliging either his baiting or his request.

"What for?" I asked reasonably. "Jacob is two and a half years younger than I am. He's still in high school, and I'm leaving the country at the end of the summer, so I'd end up having to break it off anyway. 'Pairing up' with someone would serve no purpose other than to use somebody to make _you_ feel better. I'd just be faking a relationship with an innocent bystander for no good reason. That's a cruel thing to do to anyone." _I would know,_ I did not say. "Especially to your best friend's only son." I raised my eyebrow and nodded meaningfully, earning a guilty blush from Charlie.

"If you just want to focus on college for a while, that's great," my father replied uncomfortably. "In fact, I think it's a smart decision. I'm not trying to marry you off or anything. I just want to know you're moving on."

The fire came into my eyes as I carefully laid my fork in my bowl, but I kept my voice calm. "You mean like you moved on after Mom left you?"

Charlie looked away momentarily before he answered. "That was different. She was my wife. We had a child together. And I put that behind me eventually."

I glanced around the kitchen in disbelief and stood up, collecting my books. "Look around you, Dad," I growled scornfully. "This house is exactly the same way it was when Mom took off. The yellow paint, the twenty-year-old furniture, the aging appliances…even the wedding picture is still sitting over the fireplace. That's not lazy housekeeping; that's a shrine. You hang out with Billy or the guys from work every weekend, but you don't date anybody. It's been nearly eighteen years, and I bet you haven't even _tried._ But do I give you hell about that? Does anyone?"

Charlie shook his head, looking a little ashamed.

"I don't need a man, Charlie," I informed him in an even, though irritated, voice, "and I don't need to prove anything to anyone but myself. So you and mom can both just stop pimping me out to every warm-blooded male in sight, if you please. I'll get on with my life as I see fit." With that, I walked briskly up the stairs, locking my door behind me. The show was over.

Dumping my books on my bed and taking the large, white envelope from my desk, I sat in my rocking chair and let my feet propel me back and forth as I reread my UBC acceptance letter and looked through the brochures. It wasn't hot and dry like Arizona State, but the students looked happy enough in the pictures, and the campus was large and beautiful. Warmth was overrated anyway; I'd lived through harsher things than inclement weather. Fighting away the traitorous tears I refused to shed anymore, I closed my eyes and tried to imagine myself in a better life. One in which my name wasn't synonymous with the phrase "you poor thing," and nobody had ever heard of Forks or its inhabitants, past or present, human or otherwise.

* * *

June 2005?

Bella's bedroom

Forks, WA

"You know, Bella," Alice mused as she spritzed something wet in my hair, "between your freesia, my Easter lilies, and Edward's roses, your bedroom smells like a flower shop."

One thing I loved about summer vacation: I could spend all day with the two people I loved most in the world, and there was no need to hide who they were, not here in my own room, with Charlie at work all day and no school to separate us on sunny days, like yesterday. Today, however, was overcast, and Alice was determined I should look nice while we went out.

"I do _not_ smell like roses," Edward objected, though he seemed amused.

"Roses too feminine for you?" I mocked, looking tartly at his handsome, well-dressed reflection in the mirror.

"_No_," he sang back with affected sarcasm, rolling his eyes at me. "Too cliché."

"Get over yourself, Edward," Alice jibed. Or at least, I thought it was a jibe. Edward frowned at her; perhaps I wasn't imagining the trace of an edge to his sister's voice.

"Now, now, children. Let's not fight." It was funny how Renee's kindergarten-teacher tone slipped out whenever I spent time with my two favorite vampires. "_Mis-_ter Cullen?" He smirked at me, and with good reason. In addition to my mother's voice, I was doing my best impression of Mrs. Karr hunting around the classroom for someone to answer a question in poli-sci. "Tell the class what _you_ think you smell like."

Edward chuckled, muttered something, and looked away. "What was that, Edward Anthony?" I called, trying to twist around to look at him. With a sigh, Alice trained my head forward again and waved her comb menacingly at me.

Still grinning, Edward shook his head 'no,' but Alice was all too willing to rat him out. "He said 'lilacs.' Which, by the way, is completely wrong, as he very well knows."

"Al-ice," he complained.

"Ed-ward," she replied, poking her tongue out at him.

"Bel-la," I joined in, laughing.

"Hold _still_," Alice commanded, her hard fingers carefully gripping my scalp as she made me face forward. "I'll never get your hair done if you keep turning to look at Edward. That's why I brought the mirror."

"Why do I have to get all dressed up?" I fussed. "I swear, you act like I'm your favorite doll." I didn't mind the hairdo. Heaven knew I sucked at things like that, and I was aware Alice missed that aspect of girliness with Rosalie newly removed to Africa, nursing her grudge. But the clothes Alice brought over were a bit much, even if they were just a loan.

"You _are_ my favorite doll," Alice giggled. "A doll who won't behave and challenges me daily with her tomboy ways, which is the best kind of doll."

I cocked an eyebrow at her. "Are you saying I'm the Skipper in your Barbie collection?" Edward laughed at us. "And what are you laughing at," I challenged a little louder, though the increased volume was unneeded, "rosy-boy?"

That shut him up. He scowled and folded his arms, flicking a piece of lint off the blazer Alice had dressed him in, looking like he might humph any minute.

"Pay no attention to him," Alice insisted, pinning my hair up. "He's just mad because I won't tell him what kinds of adventures are in store for today."

"Adventures?" I perked up. "Are we talking about the nice kind, where I come home happy with life, or the annoying kind, where I want to strangle you?"

"The nice kind," Alice assured me.

"Care to elaborate, Miss Cleo, Psychic Hotline Operator?" I pressed.

Out came the terrible fake-Jamaican accent. "Call meh na-ow fer yer free reed-in." I giggled, still unsure if Alice was doing a perfect impression of the former TV tarot reader (who was actually born in L.A.) or if Alice's Jamaican inflection was really _that_ awful. I looked up at her reflection expectantly, still waiting for an answer to my question. She said nothing else, but the stark white faces in the mirror were anything but passive.

"Hello?" I called. No one spoke to me, though Alice's fingers continued to thread through my hair. I waited for my vampires to finish whatever conversation they were excluding me from for a good, solid two minutes—long enough for a full discourse for minds as swift as theirs—before I finally huffed and stood up, catching Alice by surprise.

"If you aren't going to share with the class," I grumbled, skirting around Alice and heading for my bedroom door, "perhaps you should keep whatever it is to yourself."

"Bella—" Edward sighed, but I was through the door and walking downstairs to the kitchen.

"I'm going to fix lunch," I called up, annoyed. "Whenever you're ready to speak to me in my own house, let me know." It wasn't that I objected to the need for confidentiality. It wasn't even that I hated surprises. My problem with those two—with everyone in my life, really—was the lack of regard for my input about my own day-to-day life. I just might have wanted to do something today, or at least had a suggestion, but Alice had her precognizant idea of what the day would be like, and Edward, instead of talking to me, asked his sister.

Irritated, I flicked on the old kitchen radio and pulled out the sourdough bread and black forest ham. Edward walked in as a country singer crooned nonsense at me. I knew Edward hated country music, but I didn't care. This was Charlie's favorite station, and he got pissed when anyone messed with the dial or fidgeted with the antenna. After six months of being forced to listen to this station with Charlie, I actually kind of liked it, not that I'd admit as much out loud.

I slathered mayo on a slice of bread, making patterns in the mayonnaise with my butter knife. "Alice still upstairs?"

"No, she's gone home," Edward replied quietly, ever watchful as he stood in the kitchen doorway.

Nodding, I leisurely finished preparing my human food, pretending I didn't notice the way Edward wrinkled his nose at the smell of such simple things as ham and cheese. I sat in my usual chair and bit into my sandwich, reaching automatically for my drink and realizing that I forgot to pour one.

"I'll get it." Edward darted to the refrigerator before my eyes could fully register that he moved. "Milk, apple juice, or water?"

"There should be some Coke in there, please."

"Bella…" I knew what was coming next: the lecture about how I had a low tolerance for caffeine. I wasn't in the mood.

"With ice, please," I requested quickly. When the glass was presented, I thanked him and took a sip. He sat across from me, watching like a hawk until every morsel of my food was gone. Neither of us spoke.

Finally he sighed and asked me, "So what would you like to do today?"

Bemused, I furrowed my brow and stood up to wash my dishes. "Didn't you and Alice already have something planned?"

"I assume she had our entire day planned," Edward answered, sounding peeved. "But all she would tell me was that we should make sure we have enough gas in the car to reach Seattle, you should save room for dinner," he loosened his tie, "and we would need semi-formal clothing." He came closer and glanced down at my clothes. I'd worn jeans and a plain red button-up blouse during my hair appointment, certain that a t-shirt would ruin Alice's handiwork during the inevitable wardrobe change.

"I see." The soap suds shone their rainbow oil in the light from the window, and I wondered at the sad, alabaster face reflected in the glass. He was so beautiful, and he was terrible at hiding his disappointment. I felt like such a heel. "I suppose I should get dressed, then. Just let me finish this up."

For a few seconds, there were only the sounds of water pouring from the tap, twangy guitars and crying fiddles echoing from the tiny radio speaker, and the large black bird in the back yard, cawing at its mate. "What do you say we skip whatever formal dining Alice had planned," Edward offered with a small smile, shrugging out of his blazer and tossing it in the general direction of a chair. "We can still go to Seattle and do something fun."

"That sounds like a good compromise," I smiled back. Edward's cool arms came around me as I rinsed my plate and glass, carefully molding his body around my small one. I took in a deep breath of him, loving his alluring natural perfume.

"Where shall I take you?" he asked quietly, nuzzling my hair with his nose. "Any place you wish to go, my love."

"I have an idea," I whispered, leaning into his hold, a half-formed thought trying to take shape in my mind.

"Tiffany's, perhaps?" he murmured, lowering his lips to my neck. "A necklace would look beautiful right here." My head lolled to the side, allowing him easier access; I was rewarded with cool kisses along the curve of my throat.

"Mmm…I want to…" I mumbled, rapidly losing coherence.

"Yes, love?" More kisses made their way up to my earlobe. "There's a wonderful bookstore that sells rare first editions. Would you like that?"

"I want to…" What did I want again? Oh, yeah. "I want to visit a flower shop."

Edward's seductive lips stopped in their tracks. "A flower shop? What for?"

"Don't you want to prove Alice wrong?" I teased.

That was how we ended up at Moira's Specialty Floral Nursery in western Seattle.

Overall it was an intoxicating experience. There were only a few lilac bushes still in bloom outside, and these I dismissed immediately, though they smelled lovely. Edward, to my great amusement, persuaded Moira to let us into her restricted greenhouse with his particular charm. Never had I heard of anything as ludicrous as a _restricted greenhouse,_ but evidently it was reserved for rare flowers and high-priced FTD floral arrangements. I spent an hour and a half vacillating between smelling fragrant hybrid tea roses and inhaling the seemingly incomparable scent of my indulgent boyfriend. Such odd names the roses had: Kentucky Derby (a terrible name, as it implied horse manure), Blue Moon, Midas Touch. Edward seemed relieved when I proclaimed, somewhat drunkenly, that he was not infused with Ingrid Bergman, Dolly Parton, or Barbra Streisand. Whisky Mac came very close, but at last I found the absolute perfect match, the back and forth comparison leaving me dizzy and smiling and generally entertaining Edward quite a bit. I decided I wanted a dozen of them in a bouquet immediately, even before I checked the name.

Red Devil Roses.

Once I saw that, I was certain Edward would pull his emo act and the whole day would be shot to hell. His mouth had just begun to form a thin, downturned line when I hopped up into his arms and kissed him soundly on the lips.

He gripped me too firmly, keeping me locked down as he held me so close to him, but not breathing either, his lips glued shut as he pressed himself almost unwillingly into the kiss, stone against flesh. "Damn it, Bella!" he gasped, pulling away but not setting me down. "How many times do I have to tell you—?"

"I know, I know," I muttered, trying not to exhale too much, or worse, _faint._ "I need to 'behave.' Don't act like you didn't enjoy that."

Hissing his rapid, unintelligible complaints, Edward placed me back on my feet, gently settled his chin on top of my head, and resumed his feather-light, restrained grasp. I sighed internally, waiting for him to finish his snake-like rant about self-control. When he was done, he waved Moira over (_was she watching us the whole time?_) and asked that six Red Devil rose bushes be delivered to my house.

Suddenly embarrassed by such an ostentatious display of wealth—honestly, couldn't he have simply put them in his trunk and driven them home? He had an emergency tarp to preserve the carpeting in case he ever had to dispose of a body, and I knew how to dig a hole in the ground without requiring a landscaper's expertise—I lowered my eyes to the floor while Edward talked money, oblivious to my discomfort.

It took some doing, but I finally convinced him there were no other needlessly expensive things I wanted him to buy for me. I wanted to visit the Pike Place Market Street Festival or the Nordic Heritage Museum, the kind of thing I used to love doing with my mom _(I've been all over the country, and this is the only museum I've ever seen that exhibits Iceland—isn't it beautiful?)_, fly dollar-store kites at a nice, quiet park, since we couldn't go whale-watching _(I tried it once, love, but the orcas tried to capsize the boat)_, and catch the new Heath Ledger movie, _Lords of Dogtown_ _(no thank you Edward, I don't need a jumbo sized popcorn, I won't be able to finish it alone)_. We held hands on the drive home, stopping at a little mom-and-pop diner in Port Townsend so I could grab something to eat for dinner. Edward asked me to order something I wouldn't normally have, something special. With a curious glance, I asked the waitress to bring a stack of heart-shaped pecan waffles with maple syrup.

"Why heart-shaped pecan waffles?" His eyes were bright and strange and bewildered, giving me that bizarre 'what's she thinking now?' stare.

"I always liked them as a kid," I shrugged. "Especially for dinner. But Renee could never find the right kind of waffle maker for a good price, and Charlie doesn't have one at all. I haven't had them in years." I watched him carefully, his odd smile at my mention of _years_, like I'd spoken a word that simultaneously pleased and pained him in ways I would never comprehend. My waffles came quickly, and Edward, displaying the most atrocious table manners I'd ever seen him allow himself, rested both elbows on the table and set his chin on his folded arms, completely entranced as I cut my food along the square lines and dribbled my syrup just so, filling each tiny square indentation in every little piece. They were warm and soft and perfect, the maple syrup heated and thin, each bite more scrumptious than I remembered from my childhood. I would have to come back to this diner and have them again.

Edward had watched me eat plenty of times before, usually with his lips curled in disgust or his nose upturned, as he had earlier today. But this time…I didn't think I'd ever seen quite such longing on his face at my mealtimes. I was dying to know the reason, but he seemed to take a quiet pleasure in this moment, and I didn't wish to ruin it, whatever it was. I ate, he gazed, we kept silent.

"Are you going to tell me what today was all about?" I asked as we zoomed back toward home, the trees a blurry wall of green showing through the red reflection of my blouse in my window.

"Can't I do something nice for you?" Edward replied softly. He was always dodging my questions, always making me sleuth out the truth like Miss Marple or Nancy Drew. Sometimes I relished the challenge, other times I found it irksome having to drag things out of him. Today I simply wanted to be let in.

"There's nice…" I said slowly, "and then there's today. Alice hasn't done my hair up so fancy since prom, and you've been dying to spoil me. Today seems to be important to you, but you haven't told me why."

At first he said nothing, and I waited, squeezing his fingers encouragingly to show I was willing to be patient and open. "The roses are for your front and back doors, and for the windows outside the kitchen and the living room," he finally told me, though he did not look away from the road. "So you can see me and have my scent, even when I'm not there."

"Thank you." I looked at him, loving him and wondering at him, trying to understand the words he wasn't speaking aloud. "They're lovely. I'll treasure them always."

He gave a half-hearted smile, and I instantly understood that expression. Whenever I said _forever_ or _always_, he had to bite his tongue to keep from reminding me I had no concept of such things, which in turn led to my insistence that I would have a perfect concept if he'd give in and change me, and thus would begin our usual quarrel. He'd taken to stopping his mouth with that smile, and while I often pursued the topic anyway, tonight I just wanted to listen to him willingly share something of himself with me. Edward hesitated for a beat, then smiled more genuinely when I did not instigate the dreaded argument.

"And the waffles?" I pressed instead. "You seemed like you wanted some. I almost offered you a bite. Should I have…?" I laid my free palm over our joined hands on the gear shift. "Did you want to taste them?"

"Yes, and also no." Edward exhaled, that longing in his face again. "I wanted to be able to taste them for what they are. But if I tried, it would have been like cardboard drenched in motor oil. So I watched you enjoy them instead."

"Why the sudden nostalgia for food?" I wondered. "You usually hate smells like that."

"I don't hate it," he denied quickly. Which was an outright lie if I ever heard one. "I just…" Edward struggled for a moment, though I couldn't see what was so difficult. "The last time I had pecan waffles was eighty-seven years ago today. My mother made them special for me."

"Really?" I tried to picture a bronze-haired Elizabeth Masen in a hundred-year-old kitchen, mixing batter. With so many of Edward's human memories lost and forgotten, how did this stand out so clearly? And why? He never mentioned it before. "Do you remember what they tasted like?"

"No."

It made me so sad for him, that he watched me devour and ooh and ah over something he actually missed from his human life but couldn't quite recall. "Did pecan trees grow in Chicago?" I decided to tease him just a little to cheer him up. "I didn't realize pecan waffles had been invented yet. Or waffles in general, for that matter."

"In point of fact, the waffle iron was patented in 1869," Edward groaned, though the corners of his mouth turned up. "I wasn't born in the Dark Ages, Bella."

"I know, I know," I chuckled. "You were born in the highly modern Edwardian Era."

"Yes, I was. We had pianos and motion pictures and epinephrine research and even the first vacuum cleaner when I was born," Edward reminded me. "There were the Wright brothers and automobiles and cake icing and—"

"I know, I get it," I laughed. "You were born into an advanced, vital…" Realization stopped my tongue as I finally figured everything out. "Why didn't you just tell me?"

Edward looked my way at last as I lifted my eyes to meet his.

"Happy birthday, Edward."

He extracted his hand from mine and stroked my cheek, his warm ochre eyes shining.

Then his expression became ravenous, his eyes blackened with thirst, and a terrifying snarl ripped from his throat as he lunged at me, his suddenly-blonde hair flying and his claws outstretched. His other self, called into being by unknown magic, stood between us, thrusting me out of the way. I flew backward, landing in a pile of sharp glass and sticky birthday cake, my arm screaming as it was sliced open, oozing red in a pool around me as dizzy waves of water sloshed through my mind.

_What do you want me to say?_

Tell me you forgive me.

_Forgive you? For what?_

If I'd been more careful, nothing would have happened.

_Bella, you gave yourself a paper cut—that hardly deserves the death penalty._

Then why did you leave and sentence me to slow human death?

_You're not good for me, Bella._

Don't say that! Whatever you want me to be, I'll be! Just don't do this!

_Goodbye, Bella. Take care of yourself._

"_Wait!_" I screamed, hastily sitting up in bed, tears choking the rest of the pleas in my throat as the oppressive blackness of my room closed in on me. I grasped at my aching arm, surprised to find it uncut and dry, stitches long gone. Scrabbling for the nightstand at my side, I turned on my lamp to reveal my salt-blurred surroundings, desperate for the where _and_ the when.

Rocking chair. Closed window. Dresser. Desk. Decrepit computer. Clock. 2 A.M. Picture of my mother.

Wall calendar. Rows of exes.

_June 2006._

Goddamn it.

The rose bushes were all gone. I hadn't noticed until a week after the family left, but all six shrubs had been ripped from the ground, roots and all. They weren't in the garbage can, the neighbors' yards or garbage cans, or the woods around my house. The only evidence they'd ever been there were the muddy, partially caved-in holes in front of our windows and beside our front and back door. They never grew back.

I squinted across the room again and counted the nineteen exes on the calendar, my grief-weakened voice barely breathing the words that came unbidden to my lips:

"Happy birthday…"

Red Devil Roses. Heart-shaped pecan waffles. I never indulged in either of those again. It would be like begging, and I begged no one for anything.

Not anymore.

* * *

September 2006

Charlie's Driveway

Forks, WA

"You sure you don't want me to come with you?" Charlie asked. Again.

"I'll be fine, Dad," I reiterated, watching the way the morning mist swirled around his brown, curly head. "I've got everything packed in the car. I don't have room for an extra body and your suitcase."

This was not remotely true. There was plenty of room in my unassuming little '97 Honda Accord. I patted my faded grey car with affection—Matilda was its name, and it had been a graduation present of sorts when, a few weeks after the dull, hurried little commencement ceremony, my stone-aged truck wheezed, coughed out its last backfire, and died in the driveway ten minutes before I had to be at work. It surprised me when Phil pitched in for the new car, but Renee's guilt was a powerful motivator, and at least Charlie didn't have to waste even more of his retirement money on me. Jacob, who looked over the car for Charlie at the dealership down in Aberdeen, declared that 1997 was a great year for the Accord (the way he said it made me snicker, like he was describing vintage wine). Evidently it was built to last 400,000 miles before I would need to replace it. Dad hired Jacob to perform a few minor repairs and routine maintenance, and I was under strict orders to change the oil at regular intervals and use synthetic motor oil only.

Matilda was small, but it could have fit my dad and several additional bags easily if I'd packed my things differently. I just didn't want Charlie's unintentionally oppressive presence in the car. I needed this time to myself before I started a new life.

"You've got everything, then?" he asked furtively. "Passport, temporary residency papers, enrollment paperwork? Cell phone, charger? Pepper spray, pocketknife? Map? Gas money, snacks? Cash for the ferry? Vehicle emergency kit?"

I nodded in all the right places, waiting for him to be finished with his nervous-parent checklist. I must have had that old glazed look on my face, or perhaps something else, something I let slip unintentionally. Because Charlie, who normally didn't see anything but what I wanted him to see, suddenly looked through me and understood.

"Okay, then," he said roughly. "Make sure you stop at the bank to exchange your currency as soon as you're done with Immigration, and call me when you get to your dorm. I guess I'll see you at Christmas." _I'll miss you, Bella,_ his eyes told me.

"Christmas," I repeated softly. _I'll miss you, too. But I can't be here anymore._

A one-armed hug and a turn of my key, and I was headed north on one-oh-one. I just had one stop to make before I left Clallam County.

I hadn't been here in nearly a full year. The grass had grown waist high since my eighteenth birthday almost twelve months ago—whose job had it been to maintain the tedious chore of keeping the lawn mowed? I never remembered seeing any of them with a push mower or riding mower, but surely one or all of them had to perform the mundane human task. For just a moment, I imagined them taking turns using scythes in their rapid pace, pale figures in the moonlight, images of Death.

It was common knowledge that the place had not been sold—located hours away from the major cities, it was too customized and overpriced, and nobody with that kind of money wanted to purchase a vacation home in the middle of nowhere at the onset of an economic slump. I suspected they all were simply waiting for the real estate market to improve. The front door was locked, and the south wall of glass stood covered with the giant metal shutters I remembered from that fateful Spring Break eighteen months ago. But this was not the house of people who wanted or needed human assistance to protect their possessions, so I knew I had no need to fear any kind of security alarm system being triggered when I took my tire iron to one of the low-placed windows overlooking the front porch.

Very few things seemed to be missing at first glance. The large furniture pieces were meticulously covered in drop cloths to protect them from dust or yellowing. As if they might one day decide, out of the blue, to drop by and check on their antique dining table or white sofas. The large wooden cross that had adorned the second-floor hallway was gone, as were all the paintings and most of the books, which did not surprise me—those were the only things that held any real value to them. There were no photographs for me to find on desks or hanging on walls; they didn't believe in using them except as necessary for false identification, the better to hide evidence of their agelessness. The shelves in the golden bedroom on the third floor stood full with a multitude of music. I debated whether to take any, but I knew I'd only end up hating whichever CDs I stole.

Instead, I went to the closet. As I suspected: full. He left all his clothes except for those on his back. And because the door had remained shut all these months, the rosy smell of Him lingered on everything, sweet, delicious, and deadly.

I took three white button-up shirts, three warm pullover sweaters, and the suede jacket he'd given me to wear once, so very long ago, when he took me to a quiet dinner at a tiny restaurant and finally started being honest with me about who he was, though not, I now knew, about how he felt. Yes, this jacket, I would take. It didn't matter that these things meant nothing to Him, or that they would only serve as painful reminders for me. I wanted them. I had to have _something_ besides the crescent scar on my hand, still colder than all my other skin, which wasn't so much a memento of Him as it was a mark of my near-death experience at the hands—teeth—of someone else.

I raided a different closet on the second floor, one with a different familiar smell all its own: Easter lilies. I came away with a number of tops and dresses to supplement my own meager wardrobe comprised primarily of cheap clothes from Wal-Mart. I knew she wouldn't care—she would have seen me doing this a month in advance, when I first started planning this day, and she would have contacted me in some way if the intrusion or theft mattered to her. If _I_ mattered.

_Oh, my sweet almost-sister. Why did you abandon me, too?_

Interestingly enough, one of the unlocked drawers in her dresser held not clothes, not cosmetics or accessories or jewelry, but cash. Stacks and stacks of cash.

Tempting, but no. There was petty theft, and there was grand theft, and in Washington, stealing anything worth more than $250 was a felony—I looked it up in advance. As far as the ethics of it, there was taking old, unwanted clothing to keep myself warm in what I knew would be a cold country, and then there was funding my future with the cast-offs of someone's unwanted life. There had to be a line.

But since I was already technically guilty of breaking and entering _and_ vandalism…

Screw it. They didn't care about money any more than they did about clothes or armchairs or this neglected house.

Or me.

To hell with the line. What did they know about growing up poor? What did _any_ of them know about struggling to keep food on the table and the electricity turned on or worrying how they were going to find a way to pay for gasoline and insurance and still save up for school? Seven adults and only one of them even had a goddamn job. The rest of them sat around playing dress-up and challenging each other to chess matches, tricking out their sports cars the minute they saw some new, expensive accessory in _Car and Driver_, then ditching the whole vehicle like it was nothing a few months later when the newest model came along, wasting their infinite resources, time, and talent on their idle pastimes, thinking of nothing beyond themselves. So what if I filched their petty cash? They stole something else from me, something precious. Something I could _never_ get back.

Three suitcases, one fruitful trip through the garage, and three hundred thousand dollars later, and Matilda was repacked and ready to go. There was only one thing left to do. The real reason I'd come here.

My fingers ghosted lightly over the keys, trying to dredge up the memory of the right notes. Was it possible that I'd finally started to forget that song? I closed my eyes and found my answer: no, I hadn't.

"Goodbye," I whispered to the glossy, black surface. "Goodbye" to the taut wires under the lid. "Goodbye" to the ivory. "Goodbye" to the brass foot pedals and the sturdy bench. "Goodbye" to the sweet melodies that haunted my dreams, that I'd never hear Him play again. Goodbye with my voice. Goodbye with the pads of my fingertips. Goodbye with my lips. Goodbye with a can of red spray paint. Goodbye with wire cutters. Goodbye with a blowtorch from the garage. Goodbye with a fire extinguisher. Goodbye with a sledgehammer.

"Goodbye, Edward."

_lo chinga, no sabia las palabras:_ fuck it, I didn't know the words

_abuelitas:_ grandmothers

_pobrecita:_ poor thing; poor little thing

_**Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. All recognizable characters are the property of their respective copyright owners. Portions of Stephenie Meyer's original work are reprinted, but no copyright violation is intended. References to real places and groups are used fictitiously.**_


	2. 2 2007

**A/N: Originally this was a 10K word chapter, then a 12K word chapter. Then I decided to split it up. I will be posting the next part tonight, which I hope will make up for putting this one up a bit late. Enjoy!**

February 2007

University of British Columbia

Vancouver, BC

"Thank god that's over," Shalice groaned as we walked out of Dr. Carter's classroom together and threaded through the lobby.

"Amen to that," I answered with my own worn out sigh, holding the door open for my roommate as we slipped into the crisp, late winter air. "Midterms are a bitch, but at least that was the last one." We were both first-year students, but we only had one class together. When I first came here, I tested out of several freshman-level course requirements and took as large a class load as I was allowed and had money for, anything to keep my mind busy. As a result, this semester I had mostly sophomore courses and two different language classes. I studied my ass off for a solid week preparing for this round of tests.

"Oh, right," Shalice smirked, smoothing out her dishwater blonde hair, which had grown frizzy in the presence of scantrons. "Like you weren't going to ace Environmental Science. You remember _everything._"

My cell phone buzzed in my pocket. "I _should_ remember everything," I replied, sending the incoming call from Renee to voicemail—I didn't feel like arguing with her at the moment. "I was up for two more hours after you passed out on me during last night's review." We commiserated about our respective classes on the long walk back to the Place Vanier section of housing.

"You coming with us to Gatsby's tonight?" my friend asked me as we hurried up the sidewalk to Hamber house, our residence building. "I'll buy you a drink."

Constant exercise of the mind sounded like a great idea in my head, but even I got tired of studying after a while and needed something else to do. Field trips were wonderful, but they weren't exactly a weekly occurrence. Shalice was more than just a roommate and a good study partner—she was largely responsible for getting me out of my dorm and away from my job and the library that first month here and into more social situations. Her friends were pleasant enough, though I thought them too much like the high school kids back home I'd been trying to get away from, too concerned with appearances. Some were on their own for the first time on Mommy and Daddy's dime, with too much freedom and no sense of responsibility; I couldn't identify with them _at all_. The ones like me, who had to work to be here, weren't so bad, but they were anxious to fit in and I wasn't.

Perhaps it was unfair, but I tended to think of some of the events Shalice dragged me to as trite human activity designed to reinforce social mores without providing any real cultural experience, to continue the front stage façades, meant to prove to each other that we were all normal, all basically the same, all happy and fine with bright futures and nothing in our lives we couldn't handle. Like we needed to create a glamour to be acceptable to each other. But some of the things we did were community service; that took me out of myself for a while, which I liked. Sometimes my preconceptions were wrong, and I found a new thing to enjoy, like a Malaysian café. And sometimes, when Shalice asked me to go out and do something with her, it was just meant to be fun stuff. What was so wrong with that? If that's what it took to preserve a sense of unity among the students so we wouldn't be down each other's throats over our differences, did it matter so much if a particular event that someone else was passionate about wasn't exactly my cup of tea?

As long as I kept those friendships (acquaintanceships, really) strictly on the surface level, I didn't get involved in their private matters, and they didn't know about mine. Peaceful living environment achieved. Cultivating a persona was something I knew how to do—I'd learned from the best, after all—so that's what I gave, and that's what I got in return. Doing so didn't make me miserable, but it was too much work to make me happy, either. Some other day I might have said yes to my roommate's invitation, to be polite. After all, it was hard to be completely impersonal toward the person I shared a two-hundred square foot living space with, and I wasn't a _total_ misanthrope. But tonight, especially after the week I'd endured, I had other plans.

"No thanks," I declined as we passed one of the piano practice rooms on our way to the stairwell. Many residence halls at UBC had practice rooms, although personally I felt the soundproofing was inadequate. Someone was playing "Piano Man" and had missed a few notes. "I'm going to the Chatterbox."

"Ugh, why do you still go to that dive?" Shalice scoffed, wrinkling her nose a little. "It's so…"

"Hickish?" I offered, raising my eyebrows playfully. I knew what most of my schoolmates thought about my favorite establishment, but I put up with the remarks because I knew they were just intimidated by the clientele, and it freaked them out that I wasn't.

"I was going to say 'dusty,' but that works, too," she agreed, keeping behind me as we walked up the steps to our floor. "I fail to see the attraction, Bella." Shalice had only been to the Chatterbox once to humor me. She never went back, and I didn't mind. Going was a pleasure I could only afford once every two weeks, and my pleasures were rare and few, so it was better without anyone from school to spoil it for me.

I shrugged, pushing my room key into the doorknob, already planning what clothes I would change into for the evening. Something nice and comfortable—there was no need for pretension. "I just like it there."

* * *

March 2007

Irving K. Barber Learning Center

UBC

"I'm sorry," a library aide whispered, "it's nearly one A.M. We'll be closing in ten minutes. We need to shut everything down."

"Just five more minutes, please," I asked. "I think I've found what I'm looking for."

"Well, alright. I'll leave the lights on for you." The girl smiled kindly and left me to my studies. I looked after her for an extra second, wondering what she thought, if she ever saw any other patrons here for the same reason as I.

The first time this happened to me, I thought I was having some sort of psychotic breakdown. It was about five or six months after the boys from La Push found me in the forest. The general sense of numbness had finally faded away, but I didn't feel _right,_ either. The phantom pain of my dreams was gone, or at least it seemed that way, but that didn't feel like the relief it should have been. I lay in my bed half the night, staring up at the ceiling, trying to make sense of a hurt that wasn't physical anymore, until finally I threw back the covers and pulled out the first book my hand touched. It was a course catalogue. Every night I read fifty pages until I dropped off to sleep. By the end of the week, I finished the entire book, cover to cover, and I was too tired to think or dream. Then I had two more weeks of relatively peaceful nights until it happened again, and I had to start all over with another printed something-or-other, that one a textbook.

Now I was at it again, and not for the first time since moving to Vancouver. I tried to go to bed at a decent hour tonight. Really, I did. It was the middle of the week, and I had to take a morning shift at work the next day. My roommate even went to sleep, and she normally stayed up watching late night talk shows (which I assured her didn't bother me). My brain, however, was completely uncooperative tonight. I tossed and turned for an hour, my mind tumultuous with activity until I was slamming my head repeatedly into the pillow, the strangest thoughts and memories sliding around and bumping into each other in their own form of chaos.

A little girl lived next door to me when I was five and Renee and I first moved to Phoenix. Her name was Luzmaria, and at seven years old, she was the oldest of three siblings and the only fluent English speaker in her house. She was the one who taught me not just the basics of Spanish, but the deeper meanings behind some of the phrases, like how _madre_ didn't just mean mother, but implied perfect love. Luzmaria had these little red shoes that she adored, Mary Janes my mother called them, but when we translated it to her parents it came out as _marijuanas_ and they completely flipped out. So instead, we called the shoes "las Mary Janes." We were best friends for two years until her family was deported, and I never saw her again.

My first goldfish was named Jack. He lasted a week. My second goldfish was named Jill. She lasted another week. My third goldfish was named Elvis. He lasted two days. I didn't understand—I was feeding them, exactly as the directions said, and giving them clean water. Finally my mother stopped buying goldfish. It wasn't until three years later, when I went into the same pet store just to look around, that I learned what the real problem was. A clerk showed me the different kinds of freshwater species, explaining the differences in temperature requirements, habitat environments, and diet. There were small aquariums populated with fancy goldfish being sold as pets, and then there were fifty-gallon tanks full of feeder goldfish meant to be prey for larger, carnivorous fish. Feeder fish were often diseased and weren't intended to be kept in someone's tank for very long, which is why they were cheaper. That was the tank my mother always got my goldfish from.

One time my dad took me to see Santa at a mall in Seattle. I was only six or seven, and I wished for a dollhouse. On Christmas morning there was an enormous box in front of the tree, wrapped in blue paper and gold ribbon—the wrapping was done so prettily, I _knew_ it couldn't have come from my father, Mr. Messy Tape. My dollhouse was beautiful, in all its pink plastic glory, with little furniture sets for each room and three little figures, a mother doll, a father doll, and a daughter doll. The daughter doll went into the kitchen. The daddy sat on the tiny couch. The mommy played in the fun room. When it was time to return to Phoenix, Charlie drove me to the designated halfway point, my dollhouse right beside me in the back seat. Renee and Charlie got in an argument about not having room for my beautiful toy in her car. Charlie demanded to know what the hell kind of oversized crap she had in her car and why she brought it when she knew she would be picking me up, along with my luggage and gifts. Renee sputtered and squawked and finally told him whatever she had in her car was none of his goddamn business. While they were fighting, I popped the trunk and saw that my mother had a suitcase of her own, large enough to hold a week's worth of clothing. I moved her stuff around, trying to make room for my own clothes and books. Something in her suitcase made a weird buzzing sound. I almost called her over to turn it off, but she and Charlie looked very busy yelling at each other. Instead I heaved my suitcase into the trunk and stowed my backpack on the floor of the front seat, which smelled of strange cologne. When I was done I tugged on my dad's shirt to tell him it was alright, the dollhouse and I would fit just fine in the backseat if my mom would move her clutter to the front. Renee started to argue that we didn't even have room at the house for such a large toy, and I looked down at the dusty parking lot tarmac in defeat and started to cry. I went home to Phoenix. My dollhouse went back to Forks.

The memories sped up after that. The boy in my class who liked to play with my braids, not because he liked me, but because he liked hair. The first time I went to the movies by myself. My third grade teacher who had to retire in the middle of the school year because she made too much money to qualify for her husband's retirement benefits. The eel swimming in the tidal pool on First Beach. The Laguna Pueblo outside Albuquerque. Gran Marie teaching me to make chocolate custard pie from scratch. My itchy tutu. My last Phoenix sunset. Renee's piano.

The piano.

I was slipping into my shoes and coat and blazing out the door inside of ten seconds. It wasn't until I got to the library that I realized I didn't bring anything with me to study. So I spent nearly two hours trying to find something else, anything else, to think about.

_Saudade,_ the computer screen in front of me said. Portuguese. 'Longing' and 'nostalgia' were the closest English words to describe the untranslatable sentiment. Someone described it as sadness for happy memories. There were discussions of tone, indicators of fatalism because the object or memory longed for would never return, a connotation of a constant desire for things that do not or cannot exist, unattainability.

"_Saudade,_" I whispered. Close, but not quite. I didn't want Luzmaria, or my third grade teacher, or my dollhouse. I didn't want any of it. It was all gone—I accepted that. I didn't even want to remember most of it, at least not right now. I just wanted to shut down my own brain, like a normal person, so I could go to _sleep._

With a yawn, I grabbed my stack of books and stood up to leave, hoping for the best, expecting the worst.

* * *

April 2007

The Chatterbox

Vancouver, BC

"The usual, Bella?" Brown asked.

"You know it," I replied, slapping the strange currency on the bar. Even after months of living here, it was still odd to see pictures of the Queen of England on twenty-dollar bills. Maybe my way of thinking was still too American, but I couldn't help but laugh to myself when I looked at the purple tens in the cash register. Even Monopoly money wasn't _purple._

Brown set aside my cab fare and slid over my regular order. One nice thing about living in Canada that I hadn't expected—the legal drinking age here was 19 instead of 21. "To Him," I said, raising my first glass of the night.

"To him," Brown answered with a fading smile, watching as I took my first swallow of Jack and Coke before I briefly greeted some of the regulars and headed to the jukebox.

I discovered this old place by accident last fall. My anthropology professor, Dr. West, had issued a normal enough assignment: _Find a locale or event that serves as a gathering place for members of a subculture. Report on the "artifacts" used to identify the location and how the participants interact with these items and each other. Note differences in gender roles._

Most of my classmates did easy stuff, like attending activities hosted in the Korean residence hall, or venturing out to an anime convention or to one of the many neighborhoods populated by Chinese immigrants, or making use of all the excellent First Nation facilities, things like that. There really was a wealth of opportunity here.

Me? I somehow found myself following a leather-clad cluster of bearded men and hard-ass women on thunder-loud motorcycles. Shalice thought I had some kind of death wish when I told her about it later, but they really didn't scare me. They were so…human. After tailing them through the city, I wound up at what I thought might be the only bar in Vancouver with nothing but classic rock, blues, and honky-tonk music on an old jukebox against the cinder block wall, with a piece of cardboard tacked up that read: "Complaints about the music can be addressed to my foot via your ass." The tables were castoffs from an old diner, Formica numbers with ripped, vinyl-covered bench seats or beat up aluminum chairs. An aging pool table was placed off to one side—_cantina_ sized, not pro sized, and the felt top had surely seen better days. The walls of this place were adorned with little plastic signs that threw dirty humor in your face, red and blue blinking neon beer lights, and fading posters depicting V-twin engines, a 1994 Harley-Davidson Fat Boy, a vintage 1948 Indian Chief with girder forks, and (naturally) half-naked, scrawny women with big tits and 80's-era teased hair—nothing like most of the women who actually came in here.

Real women and men came to this place, all ages, shapes, and sizes, predominantly white but with a good mix of First People. Depending on what time and day I came in, most customers were dressed in whatever they'd been wearing at work, coveralls, scrubs, uniforms. But if I came in once the weekend got started, I usually saw black t-shirts proudly proclaiming that the wearers had stopped at Harley-Davidson shops and motorcycle rallies all over the continent, in Richmond Hill, in the Black Hills, in Pensacola, at Mancuso's in Houston. The men weren't all badass and muscular like bikers in the movies, and the women weren't ridiculously beautiful and fake like the posters on the walls, but the wonderful thing was that they didn't _care_. They weren't interested in attaining false notions of human perfection. Sometimes they made an effort to look their best, and sometimes they didn't. They just went along their way, trying to get through the drama in their own lives, sometimes helping each other through it, sometimes just causing more. And it was _real_ drama, with arguments and financial woes and smartass kids and alcoholism and cheating spouses and how terrible the food was in jail and putting up with other people's shit. There wasn't room for supernatural bullshit here—there was a whole world of real people with real problems without complicating everything further with nonsense about eternity and resisting bloodlust.

I watched as they gathered in this place, a few of them hardcore Brotherhood types but mostly law-abiding "weekend" bikers, united by a common interest, here to laugh and shoot pool and cry into their beer and bitch about work and drool over some new part or accessory that had finally been installed on a bike after months of saving for it, and occasionally to get into shouting matches or fistfights in the parking lot, to talk shit about crotch-rockets (more commonly known as sport bikes), and to make plans to ride to the annual Boogie Bash in Rock Creek or to the big Sturgis rally in South Dakota next summer.

I think that sense of normality was why I kept coming here, even after my assignment for Dr. West was completed and handed in. There was no sense of unmet expectations, no need to hide my pain. In here I wasn't the poor little thing who got left by the rich doctor's son, I wasn't the unwanted puppy left on the roadside, and I wasn't the stupid human girl who fell in love with a vampire. It was obvious to others that I was a jilted lover, but I wasn't looked down on for that here. It was just like anything else. We all had problems, and we came here to drink them away for a few hours, or to work through them with our own form of therapy.

"Here's your beer," Brown said, bringing my usual chaser to my favorite table in the corner. It sounded silly, but Brown was the quintessential biker cliché: beard and mustache with a dash of grey, tattoos on his arms gone green with age, weathered skin, old eyes, rough voice from chain smoking, nearly always dressed in a t-shirt, jeans, and leather. The Chatterbox had been his bar for twenty years, and his dad's before that. Brown had been the one to teach me the best way to avoid getting falling-down, puking-my-guts-out drunk: _liquor before beer, never fear; beer before liquor, never sicker._

"Thanks," I answered, swaying a little to the music. "What are your plans for Easter?"

"Same old, same old," he replied. "My old lady's cooking a ham, and my son is coming down from Calgary. Hopefully no ex-wife drama this year, just a straight visit."

"That's good. Danny Jr. is thirteen now, right? He's getting too old to be a pawn in the divorce game anyway." How well I remembered _that_ headache. "How's Marty?" Marty, short for Martine, was Brown's girlfriend and business partner. She was middle-aged, pale like me, small and squat, with fire-red hair that she kept in a thin braid and lively blue eyes that noticed everything. I balked internally the first time she introduced herself to me as 'Brown's old lady.' I probably would have stayed upset if I hadn't heard her refer to Brown as her old man.

"Marty's good. She couldn't make it tonight, but she said to tell you she'll see you tomorrow at eleven." And with a quick smile at my thanks, Brown strode back to his bar.

Tomorrow at eleven. Plenty of time for me to recover from a hangover, depending on how many draft beers I had tonight. I'd have a couple hours to visit with Marty and time for a quick shower before I had to head to work at the dining hall. Technically, I corrected myself, I didn't _have_ to work there, but I had to have something to tell Charlie about what I did with my spare time during his biweekly phone calls. The wage wasn't wonderful, but it paid for the expenses my scholarship didn't cover, like tampons and Red Bull, and allowed me to come here every other week. I was rather proud that I hadn't spent one dime of the stolen cash hidden in a safe in my room. I did form some tentative plans for it, but I would wait a while, perhaps after graduation.

Gentle humming pulsed in the back of my head and the warmth spread from my chest to my arms as the whiskey began taking its effect. I'd tried a number of other drinks over time, but this was hands down my favorite. Shalice said it was unusual for a girl my age to like Jack Daniels, which was why I never ordered it when I went out with her. At Gatsby's we had Irish Hot Chocolate, something made with an ounce of Bailey's. Weak shit, but purposely so; we could loosen up but not get too drunk to know what was going on around us if any "predators" were watching. I never had to worry about that here. I always arrived and left in a cab, and always alone. It would have been different if I'd gone to a bar where no one knew me, but Brown and Marty looked out for me that way, more so than they did for the other customers. At first I thought that might be because I was so young, but Marty said it was because I reminded Brown of Celeste, his estranged 22-year-old daughter in Manitoba. Her snapshot was hanging from the wall behind the cash register. She didn't look like me at all, but I recognized the dejection in her face from my reflection.

Marlboro smoke from the other tables curled upward and dispersed, fogging the air around me. I never did like smokers, or smoking, but it was unavoidable in a bar. After a few months, I didn't care. Honestly, it wasn't exactly the most dangerous thing I'd ever faced. It wasn't even the most poisonous thing I'd ever smelled, when I really thought about it.

I heard Him then.

_Don't do anything reckless or stupid._

Like what? What could be stupider than falling in love with a vampire and thinking I'd be welcomed and cared for by his family?

I finished off my highball and placed it on the other side of the table, in front of the empty chair. Brown wouldn't pick it up; he knew this part of my routine by now. We had signals, he and I. When I sat at a barstool, there was people-watching and more conversation. When I sat here…that was something else. Blinking twice, I started on the draft chaser.

"_There's a rundown bar across the railroad track. I got a table for two, way in the back, where I sit alone…"_

The empty seat across from me slowly began to fill with my jumbled memory as Brooks and Dunn floated through the dark room. Smoke kept me from remembering that intoxicating scent so that I wouldn't give in, and the liquor and rounds of beer erased the taste of his skin. So armed, I allowed myself this one indulgence.

_You're not good for me, Bella._

I felt myself grimace as my thumb stroked the suede jacket on my lap.

I'm sorry, _Edward_. I'm sorry I wasn't good enough for your kind. I did try to change that, but you wouldn't let me.

_Of all the things to apologize for._

What the hell was I supposed to apologize for?

_For very nearly taking yourself away from me forever._

You didn't want forever with me any damn way. Why make _me_ apologize for that? You took yourself away from _me_. You took _forever_ away from me. You took my sister away from me, my brothers…

_They love you too, you know._

No, that was just another lie. One of Them, any of them, would have come back to find me if they cared enough. They knew I loved them, and they walked away. If they had to go, they had to go, and I couldn't entirely fault them for being loyal to each other instead of me, but the least they could have done was say goodbye. Did they even think about me anymore? Why did I want them to miss me?

I could see His face across from me, beautiful and frozen, speaking the words I wanted to hear. _Oh, Bella. I'm so sorry._

No, you're not. Not that way. You're sorry you let me invade your life, maybe, but that's all. If you were sorry in the way I needed, you would be here for real.

_I'll be right here as long as you need me…as long as it makes you happy…as long as it's what's best for you._

What the hell do you know about what's best for anybody? Smug bastard.

_You are my life now._

"Eat shit and die, asshole."

I felt a hand pulling my glass away and a strong, warm arm around my shoulders, lifting me to my feet. "Up you go, Bella. Your cab is here."

Warm raindrops slid down my face, to the corner of my mouth…oh. Not rain. There wasn't salt in the rain. "I miss Him so much."

"I know you do, honey. Time to go home and get some sleep."

"Thanks, Brown." He always knew when it was time for me to go.

* * *

**A/N 2:** In modern-day Vancouver, waitstaff are required by law to monitor patrons who consume alcohol, which isn't a bad thing, but the waiters can be held legally responsible for whatever the intoxicated customer does after leaving the establishment. My understanding is that this, along with a series of highly restrictive (and ridiculous) alcohol and anti-smoking laws, is strictly enforced for reasons of public health and safety. (And yet BC's medical marijuana grow-houses are not monitored for building code safety violations or fire hazards.) HOWEVER, I'm not writing about a Vancouver like that. In my story, Bella is prearranging to get in a cab because she wants to be safe, and Brown is cutting her off and putting her in that cab because he cares, not because he's afraid of legal action. Why do I mention this? Because I don't want my Vancouver readers to say "Hey wait just a darn minute," and because it's important to any story to know what the rules are. But also to remind you not to rely on your bartender or waiter to decide when you've had enough or to see you home safely. Please drink responsibly.

_**Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. All recognizable characters and song lyrics are the property of their respective copyright owners. Portions of Stephenie Meyer's original work are reprinted, but no copyright violation is intended. References to real places and groups are used fictitiously, and certain elements of history are ignored. This story is in no way meant to reflect actual criminal events or territorial claims of gangs or motorcycle clubs in Vancouver or any other location.**_


	3. 3 2007

September 2007

Jacksonville Beach

Florida

"Bella, that boy over there is looking at you!" Renee buzzed excitedly. "Grab your bottle of suntan lotion and go talk to him!"

"Mother, please," I sighed tiredly, not even bothering to look up. Yesterday was exhausting, and I was hoping for more of a rest today than I was currently getting. "I'm trying to read and relax, here." Reading might happen, but relaxation was an impossible task because the weather was so humid and hot and sticky and just…uncomfortable. "This is the last item on my summer reading list, and I wasn't able to finish it because of work."

This was a blatant lie, but I sounded weary enough for it to be a believable one. Since both my Haida and my Salish instructors were planning to return, I decided to continue to intermediate-level courses in both tongues. So when I wasn't on shift at Newton's store, I spent an inordinate amount of time in my room completing the summer reading, listening to my language CDs, and constantly practicing the verbal formation of words I needed to learn for my First Nation language classes, until Charlie and Billy had to remind me to speak English when I spoke to them, and I heard the lilting and halting words in my dreams instead of velvet voices and rainbow laughter. I made enough commission at the store this year to pay for an extra class in the fall, and I certainly learned a lot from all that practice. But between work, rigorous study, and having to cook for my father after months of commercial food prep, it wasn't the most wonderful summer of my life. (I exerted all my effort trying not to remember the summer that _was_ the best of my life.)

Mrs. Newton gave me my final week off with pay and a summer bonus because I was, as she put it, _a damn fine employee and more motivated than my lazy, good-for-nothing, lump of a son._ Renee insisted I spend this vacation week with her, and Charlie reminded me that I hadn't been able to visit her for Thanksgiving, Christmas, or Easter. Admittedly, there wasn't anything I really wanted to do in Washington. So I accepted the proffered plane ticket, armed myself with reading material, slapped a practiced smile on my face, and mentally prepared myself for five days of Renee Dwyer's Guide to Life before I had to get back to Forks and pack up my car for school.

"Besides, I'm sure he's just staring because I'm so pale," I yawned, my eyes on my book. Traditional fiction no longer interested me; my once-favorite classics all blurred together in my mind to form one massive episode of Jerry Springer featuring various sexually repressed, gold-digging guests in long sleeves and silk top hats. Native legends, on the other hand, were fascinating to me, and I was working my way through a book of tales from the Pacific Northwest for the second time, letting the now familiar words of the Haida people's Mother Bear story lull me closer to sleep. _The son of the chief said to her, 'You will live if you become my wife. Otherwise you will die.'_

"That's what comes of living in Vancouver," Renee commented, raising a hand to shade her eyes as she scanned the beach.

Too spent to think better of it, I mumbled, "Vancouver has nothing to do with it. We both know I inherited Charlie's coloring." Along with his eyes, his hair, and his work ethic. Which I did not bring up for a reason.

"You're mine, too," Renee replied petulantly, plucking said reason right out of my head. I suppressed the urge to groan. For as long as we'd been able to hold conversations about who I looked like, my mother had been trying to reinforce that I took after her, as if I couldn't see the facial resemblance with my own eyes. "You get a little glow when you get some sun."

Sixteen years of living together in California and Arizona, and she didn't remember my skin? "I could stay out here all day and still walk away looking like an albino," I objected. I hated lying here in the god-awful wet heat. I hated the notion that I glowed in the sun when I didn't, not _really_. And I hated that Renee could take me to that place in my thoughts without even trying. To distract myself from that painful tangent, I added, "You're fighting a losing battle with that one, Mother. I swear, I don't know why I let you talk me into trying to work on my tan." Actually, I _did_ know: I was too tired at the time to argue, and I was naïve enough not to suspect her of an ulterior motive until we got here.

"Tan-shman. You could work on your tan in my backyard," she said, confirming my suspicions. "I want you to take in the ocean view and warm water. And I want you to meet someone."

Relax, Bella, relax.

"Oh really? Did you invite some friend of yours?" It wasn't that I minded using my school persona if I had to, but I didn't have quite enough energy to pull it off, and I was fairly certain my mom would see through it. My eyes ran over the same sentence once again. _'You will live if you become my wife. Otherwise you will die.'_

"Good _Lord,_ Bella," Renee scoffed, "how can you be so willfully dense? I _mean_ I want you to go socialize and find someone cute to get to know better. That boy is still looking—he's definitely interested. Maybe you can score a date for tonight or tomorrow."

"What for?" I shrugged, removing my sunglasses so I could lay my head down for a minute or two. "I'm leaving in a few days anyway."

"There's this new invention," Renee said with sarcastic pleasantry. "It's called the internet. Maybe you've heard of it? It allows you to keep in touch with people on a regular basis over great distances without the use of postage stamps or long-distance telephone fees."

"Right, Mom, that's just what I need," I replied sleepily, thankful for a light breeze that kissed the beads of sweat already forming on my skin. "Starting an internet romance with a boy who lives three _thousand_ miles away is perfectly logical and healthy. Especially when I have three more years of school ahead of me to complete my degree. And what boy wouldn't want to tell his friends he has a girlfriend in Canada?"

"You've only been there a year." Why she felt the need to remind me of how long I'd been at UBC during every conversation, I would never understand. It wasn't as if the length of time I'd attended mattered. "You could always transfer here."

'_You will live if you become my wife. Otherwise you will die.'_

"Of course," I groaned, shifting my weight a little on our beach blanket and slowly closing my eyes. "I'm going to give up my scholarships, waste the semester's tuition that's already been paid, and transfer to a college that doesn't teach the languages I'm studying. All for some boy who was staring at me on the beach." Really, I was half asleep and even I could see how dumb that idea was.

"I could help you pay for college," she pretended to offer. Or maybe it was a real offer, just a thoughtless one. If my mother was of a mind and in a position to help me with tuition, fees, or living expenses, she'd have done it already or at least mentioned it, _before_ I spent the summer selling canoes and waterproof backpacks. She certainly wasn't offering to help me if I stayed at UBC.

_You will live if you become my wife. Otherwise you will die._

"Thanks for the offer, but we both know you can't," I said quietly but firmly. I chose to believe that she couldn't. Aside from the fact that she was still just subbing instead of teaching full time, it was easier to tell myself she couldn't help me financially instead of considering the alternative: that she willfully refused unless I did as she asked. "Please drop it." If she would just leave me alone, I might be able to take advantage of the slightly cooler morning air and catch a few Z's before the sun became too high and we were headed off to whatever activity she had planned next. Hopefully it wasn't something that required too much physical exertion.

"Fine!" Renee huffed. I knew better than to think that meant she would actually drop the subject, though. "I just wanted you to open your mouth and talk to somebody instead of keeping your nose buried in your books like you always have. You're really cute, and you should enjoy the attention while you still can."

There was that word again: cute. I wasn't six years old; I didn't _do_ cute. "Yeah, Mom. While I still can." I stifled another yawn and pretended she didn't have a legitimate point buried in there somewhere. "I'd better hurry up and strut my stuff before I hit _twenty_ in a couple of weeks."

_You will live if you become my wife. Otherwise you will—_

"I can tell you've put on a few pounds," she cautioned. The feeling of her eyes burned into me as she appraised my body again. She'd done that several times since I arrived, and while I told myself it was simply because she hadn't seen me in over a year, as of this moment it felt every bit as demeaning as it really was. "Right now it looks good on you because most of it went to your boobs, but you're wasting your figure over nothing. I will not allow you to sit and moon over That Boy any longer. You're not seventeen anymore. You won't look this young and pretty forever."

_How long have you been seventeen?_

_A while._

"_Huu tll guu giidang,_" I muttered in Haida under my breath—_that's how it is._ "Mom, _please_ just stop. I don't want to meet anyone right this minute. _Somebody_ kept me out too late last night, and I'm _tired_." I opened one eye to give her a meaningful stare, then closed it again. "Now I don't want to discuss this anymore. I'd like to take a nap."

"It's high time you found someone else." She sounded like she was somewhere between a growl and a motivational speech. "You've been alone too long. Get up and do something with your life besides study and sulk. Stop holding on to a boy who doesn't love you while life passes you by. Get out there and—"

My eyes ripped open, and I slammed my book shut and rose abruptly, startling my mother. "I'm going swimming."

Renee looked confused. "I just meant—"

I held up a hand to silence her. She wouldn't let me go to sleep after my flight, she wouldn't let me have some quiet today so I could read or rest, she wouldn't stop harping on me to do what _she_ wanted, and everything she said just reminded me of all the things she wanted me to forget. Fighting about my nonexistent love life was not an avenue I wanted to pursue, so I opted to pick something to do that she approved of. Glaring down at my mom, I adjusted the edges of my swimsuit to cover my butt. "You said you want me to enjoy the warm water. And you want me to show off my body _right now_ in case I grow saggy tits and a big ass in the next five minutes. So I'm going swimming. Happy?"

"Bella, wait," she called as I turned to go, but I had enough.

Rather than listen to her anymore I stormed off, grumbling a Salish phrase to myself but loud enough for Renee to hear: "ĆÁL̵ NE SU HE, HO,I OL." She probably thought it a command, a dismissal, or possibly even vulgarity. It was none of those things, and it wasn't very adult of me to go that route, but I knew this way she wouldn't follow me or get on my case for a while, and that was all I wanted.

That evening I reclined drowsily on the bed in the guest room, dozing off and watching the way the sheer, light curtains swayed in the wind as the sea air blew in and out of the windows, when I heard a knock on the door.

"Can we talk in the morning, Mom? I'm beat," I called sleepily, not looking away from my focal point. It was too warm here to sleep under blankets, so I covered up with only a sheet. Renee had invested in four-hundred thread count linens, for which I was supremely thankful.

My door opened a crack. "Hey there. You decent?" Phil. I heard the tell-tale traces of his nearly vanished Southern accent, a remnant of his childhood in Shreveport, Louisiana.

"Yeah. Thanks for picking up dinner," I yawned, turning my head to look at him through bleary eyes as the door swung the rest of the way open. "I just didn't have the energy to cook tonight." Heaven knew I'd have to cook every other night unless Renee made dinner plans somewhere.

Phil stood in the doorway, not entering my temporary private space. It had always been that way with us, just one of the unspoken rules you follow when you're a teenaged step-daughter and twenty-something step-father and you don't want to cross the line between appropriate and inappropriate contact. Awkwardness came with the territory.

"You're welcome for the take-out. I want to talk to you about your mom," he said immediately. Unbelievable. She sent _Phil_ to reason with me.

"Tomorrow, please," I grumbled, rubbing my left eye. "I'm exhausted."

"No, I'd rather resolve this now." Phil was an odd cross between my parents personality-wise. He spoke what was on his mind and loved having a great time, like Renee, but he was strong-minded and didn't stand for anyone hurting the people he loved, which was all Charlie. "What did you say to her?"

"We argued, Phil." I stared at him levelly; this was between mother and daughter, none of his business. I resented the intrusion and I resented my mother for dragging him into this. "We do that. It wasn't the worst fight we've ever had." Not by a long shot.

"Yeah," he groaned, "I'm aware of that. I would've thought you'd outgrown that by now."

I rolled my eyes at him. This from the man who married a perpetual preteen. "You're kidding, right? Do you have any idea what she said to me today? She spent all morning needling me, I _didn't _yell at her—in point of fact I did my best to walk away before any shouting began—and you think _I'm_ the one who needs to grow up?" Renee may or may not have been listening to us, but she sent him in alone, so if she overheard something she didn't like, that was her own fault.

"I think you need to cut Renee some slack," he admonished. "It's been a year and a half since you've seen each other. She's trying very hard to show you a good time while you're here."

His face was stern, but I was an old pro at that, and I'd had years more practice being the parent. Rather than play the 'you're not my dad' card like a ten-year-old, I did what I always do: I used reason.

"When she ran to you complaining about how argumentative or unreasonable I am," I began, "did she happen to mention she thinks I should give up the scholarship I worked so hard for to move down here for a hypothetical boy I haven't met, because she thought she saw a guy checking me out?"

My step-father's forehead wrinkled in confusion. "What? That's ridiculous. Renee knows better than that. Why would anyone suggest anything so…?"

"Stupid?" I supplied, too drained and irritable to play nice. Honestly, Phil was looking pretty stupid, too, for not knowing how Renee thought by now. "I don't know. I'm not even sure where the _guy _was from—for all we know, he lives in Jersey or South Africa. But that didn't stop her from making the jump from 'go talk to him' to 'move across the continent.' Ask her about it right now if you want. How many times have you overheard her insisting I transfer?"

Phil looked at his feet.

"By the way," I asked, "does Mom think she won the lottery, too? Or did you suddenly get a huge salary increase from the school district to back up her offer to pay my tuition if I move down here? _Only _if I move down here, I presume."

I heard a slight thump coming from the hallway. Phil frowned in the direction of the sound, and I sighed and shook my head at him. "Phil, you were out of town until this evening, so I'm guessing that you're forming your opinion based solely on Renee's version of events. Allow me to enlighten you to my side of the story." My step-father exhaled and nodded in resignation, so I forged ahead.

"Yesterday I got up before dawn, swallowed a whole pot of coffee, and drove three hours to the airport in Seattle because Dad was working third shift and couldn't take me. Then I spent an hour and a half at Sea-Tac getting through security, and another _nine_ hours after that traveling by plane. Couldn't sleep on my first _or_ second flight because I was seated next to some very cranky children, and I certainly couldn't sleep during the layover," I informed him. "I finally landed in Jacksonville at six in the evening, had just enough time to grab a salad from McDonald's for dinner and put my suitcase down before Renee was throwing a dress at me and dragging me off to some night club so she could go dancing and I could be her designated driver. She didn't even think about my jet lag, just kept right on partying. Finally she felt ready to leave when I started ordering triple shots of espresso from the bar so I wouldn't fall asleep at the fucking wheel on the drive home." Phil's eyes widened slightly at my profanity, but I pressed on without apologizing. "And then today she wakes me up early in the morning to drag me to the beach, makes a face when I pull out a one-piece swimsuit, won't let me read, won't let me sleep, keeps bugging me to go flirt with strangers before I get _fat _and it's too late for me to catch a man…" I threw up one hand in frustration. "Do you see a pattern here, Phil?"

"I see your mom getting carried away, yeah," my step-father admitted. "She's adventurous and enthusiastic. Sometimes overenthusiastic. We both know that. But I also see you exaggerating and being ungrateful."

How dare he accuse me of exaggeration when he'd witnessed nothing for himself? "Excuse me," I said tightly, unwilling to listen to more of his rationalizations, "for wanting to have twelve hours _rest_ when I arrive for my _vacation._ When you used to go on the road for away games, you got to settle down and get some sleep before your game, right? You didn't drive the bus yourself and immediately step into the batter's box, did you? And when you came back after two weeks on the road, your coach let you recharge before he made you come in for practice, didn't he? Don't you do as much for your players now that you're coaching?"

"Why didn't you just tell her you were tired?" Phil said reasonably.

"You've got to be kidding me," I hissed in a low breath. "I _did_ tell her I was tired. _Many. Times._ I shouldn't _have to_ tell her I have jet lag when I've just stepped off an _airplane._ I shouldn't have to explain that I've been traveling all day to the woman who bought the tickets_._ It shouldn't be necessary to tell her I need sleep, not more coffee, or that fatigue equals cranky equals leave me alone already. She's old enough not to need it spelled out for her."

Phil looked down the hall again, his eyes narrowing just a little, and turned back to me. "I understand you have jet lag." He looked a little mollified but was clearly still annoyed with me. "But this attitude you have, like it's such a chore for you to put up with someone who wants to show you a good time: that has to stop. It's hurting your mother. She just wants you to enjoy yourself, and there's nothing wrong with that."

I sat up, set my jaw, and sucked in my breath for what was building up. "How can I enjoy myself when she won't shut up for five minutes about all the ways I _should_ be enjoying myself at any given moment? It's like she thinks I'm doing something _wrong_ if I'm not taking every opportunity to chase after idiot boys my own age. She thinks I'm wasting my life because I don't have a new boyfriend and I'm not jumping up to land any guy who looks my way before I get old and frumpy. Then she brings up my _old_ boyfriend and blames whatever she thinks is wrong with me on Him. Every single time I interact with her, she gets like this. Usually I try not to complain while I'm here visiting, but I swear to god, Phil, she gets worse every year, and I'm getting sick of it already." Phil began rubbing the back of his neck, looking like he regretted getting in the middle of this.

I sat up straighter and kept going, letting it all out now. "I have been working my ass off for two years! Do you realize how long it's been since I had anything that resembled a vacation? What's wrong with letting me have a little peace and quiet, _my way,_ just for a _little while?_" I'd worked up to a shout, something I'd not done in a long time. "She couldn't have given me one day, just _one day,_ before making me tag along as she tries to reclaim her lost youth?"

Phil stared at me in shock—he had never seen me pitch a fit before—and his expression startled me into silence. "I think she's trying to reclaim _yours,_ Bella," he said nervously. "She's trying to do this for _you_."

"I didn't ask her to," I told him in a much calmer voice, shaking my head. "I don't need her for that. I never did."

"Bella," Phil tried, "I think maybe you do. It's not normal for a girl your age to be so serious." A man with no sisters, who worked in a male-dominated profession and married a woman a decade older than him, felt qualified to tell anyone what was normal for a girl ten years his junior? God, these two really were a match made in heaven, weren't they?

"You've never really understood what she's doing here, have you?" I asked. At his quizzical expression, I elaborated. "You are living your life, plain and simple. You're doing what you do, because that's where you are, here and now. _She,_" I gestured in the general direction of the hallway, "is reliving the carefree life she thinks she should have had when she was your age, or even _my_ age—the life she would have had if I didn't exist. She wants to pretend I'm her little sister, not her daughter, because if I act young, she can pretend she still is, too. She's always been afraid that I would outgrow her someday, because it would mean she's _old._"

Phil said nothing but looked at his feet uncomfortably, and I knew I'd hit the proverbial nail on the head.

"Guess what?" I asked softly. "That day has come and gone. Whether she thinks of herself as old or young is not my problem. I'm finding my own way to be, and it's not hers, and there's nothing wrong with _that_, either."

"No, there's not," he conceded.

"Look," I sighed, "I'm sorry for raising my voice at you before, and I swear I didn't set out to hurt her feelings, but…I just…" I shut my eyes and cradled my forehead in my palm, trying to make my brain stop hurting. "I can't…_be_…who she's pushing me to be. I'm not a social butterfly that needs to hatch. I can't just walk up to some stranger and expect to be swept off my feet and have everything else melt away. That's not real life."

"Okay," Phil agreed. "That's fine. But why didn't you just tell her that?"

With great effort, I opened my eyes again. "Why do you think we fight every time she calls me, Phil?" I turned my head toward the open window again. "Now can you please give me some privacy? I wasn't making excuses to sulk when I said I was exhausted. I've had about five or six hours of sleep in the last day and a half, and now you know why."

Phil nodded and backed away from the door, but he didn't close it. Renee stepped shyly through the door, her eyes streaming with tears.

"Mom…" I moaned. "Please don't."

She flung herself onto my bed and sobbed into a pillow. With a sigh, I threw an arm over her and patted her back like a tiny child. "It'll be okay, Mother. Let's just go to sleep," I droned, knowing it would be a long half hour, maybe more, before she settled down enough to _let_ me sleep. "We can do something fun tomorrow. Preferably in the afternoon, after I've had a chance to sleep _in_."

Renee nodded into her pillow before turning her face to look up at me. "I love you, baby."

"I know."

She waited for me to say more. When I didn't, she asked, "What was it you said on the beach? When you spoke that…that language."

"Nothing bad, I promise. It's just my habit to practice what I've learned. I drove Dad crazy all summer with it." I kissed her head and sighed, thinking of the phrase again:

_Finally I'll be alone._

* * *

September 2007

The Chatterbox

Vancouver, BC

"Hey, Brown," I called out the moment I walked through the door. "Miss me?" It was only Monday afternoon, so there really wasn't much of a crowd yet. A couple of tables were occupied, and a few loners sat at the bar.

"Bella, I didn't expect to see you here so soon," Brown smiled. "Classes haven't even started yet, have they?" His grin faded at the expression on my face. "What happened, honey?"

"Highball," I exhaled, sliding my money across the counter and taking a seat on the barstool instead of retreating to my corner table, currently occupied by Sherry and Tall Brian. "Make it two. I've got mother issues today."

"Oh shit," Brown sighed, sorting out my money and setting aside my cab fare as he made a 'so it's one of _those_ nights' face. He fixed my first drink, handing it over as he searched me with his eyes. "Drafts after the highballs?"

"Yes, please," I groaned, taking my first swallow. The whiskey burned a little in my throat, more than I remembered after a summer of abstaining. But god _damn_, did it feel good. "EN,ÁN U ÍY."

"You've been practicing," Brown noted, impressed. "What's that mean?"

"I believe," a man's voice said from the far end of the bar, "she said something like 'It's really good.' Right?"

"Yes, I did," I concurred, my voice rough around the alcohol. I did not look up to see who understood my SENĆOŦEN. It was so rare to find anyone who spoke it that wasn't affiliated with the university or living on a reserve—I should have been excited. Any other day I might have struck up a pleasant conversation with the guy, inquired if he studied that particular Straits Salish language at the tribal school on the Saanich rez near Victoria or if he spoke a mutually intelligible dialect, asked him if my accent was right, and shot the breeze for a while. Any other day, I might have put my glass down for a minute. Any other day, I might have actually smiled.

Today, however, I just took another drink. A long drink.

"You coming to see Marty this weekend?" Brown asked.

"Depends on my new work schedule," I hedged. "I won't find out until tomorrow afternoon. But yeah, probably. How's she doing?" Damn, this whiskey was good.

"She's fine. You just missed her—she went home an hour ago. She got some new stuff in that she wants to show you." His tone took on a cautious quality as I walked over to the jukebox and slid a few quarters into the slot. I made my way back to my stool and my glass with haste. "She missed you."

"I missed her, too." Really, _really_ good whiskey. I wondered if Brown had used the good stuff without telling me. "It really sucked, not being able to see the two of you all summer. Nobody really…understood…it was just so…_eché de menos…_"

"_When the sun goes down on my side of town, that lonesome feeling comes to my door and the whole world turns blue…"_

"Like that," I sighed, indicating the song with a wave of my hand.

"Maybe you should just have one highball tonight," Brown suggested over the blaring music. "You're hitting it so hard, two might not even be necessary."

"Maybe," I agreed, knowing he'd give me whatever I asked for either way, because that's how a bar is run, but also knowing that it would be wiser to listen to him if I wanted to avoid praying to the porcelain god later. "Let's just see how I feel after this one."

A few hours later I sat at my regular table, staring death at an empty glass.

_I thought Florida…and your mother…well, I thought that's what you would want._

Moron. Weren't you paying attention at all? I didn't want her, I wanted _you._

* * *

October 2007

Las Margaritas Mexican Restaurant

Vancouver, BC

"So the euro's suffering from devaluation this year, and it makes no sense at all, because three hundred million people are backing it up. What _I_ proposed was…"

God, I was going to kill Renee for this. Or Phil, maybe, for encouraging her instead of tempering her. But most likely, Shalice.

My roommate, God love her, suggested that the best way to get Renee off my back about not dating anyone was to actually try dating. Distasteful as I found the idea to be, I had to agree that this was the easiest thing to do short of manufacturing an imaginary Canadian boyfriend, which would have been funny under the circumstances but not original at all.

So here I sat, dressed in some hemmed-up jeans of Rosalie's and a sky-blue designer blouse that was once Alice's, wearing dark eye make-up that Shalice swore was sexy and popular when she put it on me. Renee probably would have liked this guy—he looked 'cute,' like he stepped out of some teen sitcom, but he was short on personality and didn't seem too interested in getting to know me. After ten minutes, the feeling was mutual. With a bored sigh, I stared at the little candle on the table and half-listened to this ridiculous boy nattering about getting his international finance degree. At least I knew enough not to bore him to tears about linguistic anomalies. He couldn't show me the same courtesy? If only I hadn't already told him I'd finished my assignments for the week, I could have made an excuse about needing to get home early to work on something. Tracing the patterns in the tile-topped table of a _Mexican_ restaurant in freaking _Vancouver,_ as if that had a chance in hell of working out, I thought vaguely of how much prettier the painted Spanish tile was than the cheesy red and white checked tablecloth in my memory of my very first date.

To top it off, the damned fool ordered _vegetarian_ fajitas for us to share. What the hell? These weren't fajitas, these were stir-fried vegetables. This was the stuff real fajitas had for breakfast. I didn't hate Chinese food, but I didn't come to a Mexican restaurant to get stir-fried broccoli on a tortilla. If there was ever a culinary sin, these were surely a slight against some Aztec god of food, which explained why they were being served as far away from Mexico as possible while still remaining on the same continent. I didn't know who to be more infuriated with: my date for ordering _for_ me, or the proprietor for offering this crap on his menu.

So I did what do best: I used my multilingual skills to entertain and express myself. When the manager walked by and asked us in accented English how we liked everything, I told him the truth. In Spanish.

"_No me gusta mi comida. Prefiero fajitas de _res_, pero este bolillo pendejo y tacaño no me dio permiso para ordenar lo que quiero. Por favor, dale el cheque, así que puedo salir y escapar mi noche del infierno."_

The manager cast an appraising glance at the 'stupid-ass, cheapskate white boy' in question. The poor boy looked very confused but smiled suggestively at me when the manager flagged down our waiter and produced our check. "Oh, are we leaving already?" the guy asked, his eyebrows wiggling a little as the manager handed him the bill. Asshole. Eighteen bucks plus the price of two sodas, and he thought I was going to give it up? Was black eye shadow synonymous with 'whorish' and I just didn't know it? Was it possible that he'd been planted by my mother?

"Yes," I said clearly, narrowing my eyes and reaching into my back pocket for my wallet. "I'm definitely done."

I realized that Shalice was actually a genius. My first date since I came to Canada (actually, the first since 2005), and she knew I didn't really want to go, so she set me up with someone I was guaranteed to be bored with. Why waste a perfectly interesting guy on me when I was only doing this to shut my mother up? Maybe Shalice was hoping to work me up to someone better. Or maybe this was the only guy willing to go out with me. Too bad I didn't care either way.

"_Señorita,_" the manager asked with a hushed, almost protective tone, "_¿me quisiera llamar un taxi para usted?_"

A taxi? Oh hell yes. I knew exactly who I wanted to tell all about this farce. I reached behind me to grab my coat. It still smelled of the suede cleaner I used on it this morning.

"_Sí, por favor. Dile que me voy al Chatterbox._"

* * *

December 2007

Charlie's Kitchen

Forks, WA

"How were your final exams, Bells?"

I filled Charlie's plate with mashed potatoes and green bean casserole as he carved the small turkey I baked for us. "I think I did well. I studied my a—my butt off. I feel pretty confident."

"Good. When are your grades supposed to arrive?" His eyes were on his work, not me, but I could hear in his voice that he was thinking about something else.

"Sometime between now and New Year's Day," I answered easily, spooning side dishes onto my own plate now. I didn't know the results of my tests, but my class work had been nearly impeccable. While I enjoyed my time at the Chatterbox, it wasn't the _most_ important thing in my life. School was my top priority, and I always knew how and when to take care of business.

Charlie and I settled into our quiet Christmas meal, occasionally talking about cases he was working on or my 'friends' from school. He reminded me to drink responsibly when I went to Gatsby's with Shalice. There was no point in pretending I wasn't taking advantage of Canada's drinking age, so I was honest about occasionally going out to the night club geared toward university students. I said nothing about my real watering hole.

"So," he said casually, sitting in his recliner after dinner, facing his pre-lit but otherwise undecorated artificial Christmas tree. "Are you seeing anyone?"

"No, Dad," I chuckled. This again? "I haven't met anyone new since our last phone call." Once a month I was asked this simple question and allowed to give a simple yes-or-no answer without lengthy elaboration. Since it was a holiday, I got it twice. This time I was going to hit back. "What about you? Have you asked Sue Clearwater out yet?"

Charlie rewarded me with his wide, shocked eyes. "_Bella_, Harry's only been gone a year and a half. It's disrespectful. Besides," his eyes swept back to the tree, "Sue's not ready for anything like that yet."

"I can understand _that_," I said pointedly, pulling our gifts out from under the tree. He would drop the subject, I knew, and wouldn't need more of an explanation. Everything was so much easier with Charlie.

We exchanged our lame presents—thermal underclothes and a fishing knife for him, new sweaters and three decidedly non-lame hundred dollar bills for me. He suggested I use the money to buy a new parka, since I had the same black one, currently hanging from a hook by the door, since high school. I missed my suede jacket, but I knew I couldn't bring that into the house without explaining what I was doing with a four-hundred-dollar men's coat, even if it was used. It sat in the trunk of my car, waiting for me.

"So where'd you get that…shirt you have on?" Charlie asked, eyeing my clothes uncomfortably.

"Oh, so you finally noticed?" I teased. When I walked down the stairs this morning wearing my long-sleeved, rhinestone-studded skull t-shirt from Barnes, I thought for sure that Charlie would send me right back up to my room and demand I put on something appropriate for the holiday season. I was already prepared for that with a remark about not being able to find Baby Jesus t-shirts this far north, but it hadn't been necessary yet.

"It's…well, it's…" Charlie struggled.

I turned around for a few seconds so he'd see the symbol on the back. "I got it from a Harley shop in Vancouver. Renee sent me some Christmas money a little early—" what a strange surprise that had been!—"so I got this."

"What were you doing at a motorcycle dealership?" Charlie wondered, looking into my face as though I were a stranger.

"Buying this t-shirt," I waved at my torso, "obviously." And salivating over Sportsters and Softails. Not that he needed to know that.

A week later I made myself get out of the house and hit a New Year's Eve party on the Quileute rez. Jacob Black stood in front of the bonfire with some of his friends, laughing joyfully. I wondered idly if he still harbored the schoolboy crush he had back when he crashed the Forks High prom my junior year, not that I intended to act on it if he did. I had my answer a moment later; his arms went around a pretty redhead I'd never seen before, and he kissed the top of her head before turning to wave at me. His sister Rachel, who I hadn't seen in years, yelled out "Lizzie!" and gave the girl a hug. I smiled and waved back at Jake and kept to myself, wanting them to enjoy their happiness.

_If only I could have a real drink. _Technically the standard US drinking age was enforced on the reservation, but I saw some teenagers drinking anyway. Nonetheless, I'd driven myself here in Matilda and refused to drive drunk, so essentially I was standing here missing the Jack in my Jack and Coke. With an inaudible sigh, I slapped another fake smile on my face when I saw some of my former high school acquaintances and began the repetitive conversations about dorm life, what everyone's major was, what kind of student organizations they'd joined, whether they were seeing someone special or enjoying dating many people. Look at us, we're happy, we're normal, we have bright futures ahead of us, we have no problems. You still aren't seeing anyone? Oh, you poor thing.

"Bella, what are you doing back so early?" Charlie asked when I walked in the door. "It's not even midnight yet."

I looked at him, sitting on the couch with his best friend, watching Ryan Freaking Seacrest count down to the New Year while Dick Clark was out of commission, both of them before me with cans of Vitamin R littering the floor at their feet. Evidently the deputies were all on duty tonight, allowing Charlie the luxury of a real holiday.

Not breaking eye contact, I said, "Dad, I need a beer."

Charlie stared at me for a full minute, taking in my stance, my expression. I didn't avoid his gaze or pout; I just looked at him. My father's eyes dimmed and he turned away, as if something about me was too painful to even look at anymore. "Help yourself."

I sat with Charlie and Billy, trying not to listen as they chattered about their younger days, when they were wild and single and happy and carefree. Before they got married and life got complicated. They didn't even notice that I finished off a six pack on my own.

_Oh, you'll get over it—it's just a crush._

God, if only that were true. Life would be so much easier if I could just get over you.

_Do you want me to leave?_

I want to go _home_. I just don't know where it is anymore.

_Someplace where I couldn't hurt you anymore._

There is no place on Earth where you can't hurt me anymore.

_Be rational._

Don't you think I've tried? "_Gam gina tlaa dii isda g__̱__aaya g__̱__ang ga._"

"What was that, Bells?" Charlie asked sleepily.

I shook my head, finished off my last beer, and walked slowly toward the kitchen to retrieve the garbage can so I could clean up all the empties. Thinking of all the potato chip crumbs and bits of pretzels, I grabbed the broom and dustpan, too. Tomorrow I would have to give the living room a more thorough cleaning, but for now, this would be enough to keep insects and mice away.

"What did you say a minute ago?" my father asked again as I knelt on the floor, clearing his mess. To his and Billy's credit, they immediately leaned over and started picking up the cans closest to their seats and pitching them into the trashcan. Their aim sucked, but it was the thought that counted.

"Nothing, Dad," I answered, shoving a crinkled bag of Ruffles further into the can. "Just something I learned at school." _I can not do anything right._

* * *

_Huu tll guu giidang:_ (Haida) That's how it is.

ĆÁL̵ NE SU HE, HO,I OL: (Salish) Finally I'll be alone.

EN,ÁN U ÍY: It's really good.

SENĆOŦEN: A Salish dialect spoken by the Saanich people, one of the tribes (also called 'bands') of the Northern Straits Salish, a category of the Coast Salish. There are 23 languages in the Salishan language family.

_Echar de menos:_ (Spanish) to feel the absence of something

_No me gusta mi comida…_: I don't like my food. I prefer _beef_ fajitas, but this stupid-ass, cheapskate white boy didn't permit me to order what I wanted. Please give him the check so I can leave and escape my night from hell.

_Señorita,_ _¿me quisiera llamar un taxi para usted?_: Miss, would you like me to call you a taxi?

_Sí__, por favor. Dile que me voy al Chatterbox.:_ Yes, please. Tell him I'm going to the Chatterbox.

_Gam gina tlaa dii isda g__̱__aaya g__̱__ang ga._: (Haida) I can not do anything right.

_**Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. All recognizable characters and song lyrics are the property of their respective copyright owners. Portions of Stephenie Meyer's original work are reprinted, but no copyright violation is intended. References to real places and groups are used fictitiously, and certain elements of history are ignored. This story is in no way meant to reflect actual criminal events or territorial claims of gangs or motorcycle clubs in Vancouver or any other location.**_


	4. 4 2008

**You may have noticed that the rating has changed to M. This fic is not rated for abuse. That's all I'm going to say.**

January 2008

Marty's Garage

Vancouver, BC

"There you go, hon. Tighten that head pipe first, but don't overdo it or you'll break a stud off, and the whole thing will go to hell in a hand basket on you." I obeyed, taking care to follow Marty's instructions to the letter, as always.

This whole thing started by accident. One day a few months after I moved here, my dad called me with a reminder to change the oil in my car—his way of letting me know he was thinking of me. That night I went to the bar, intent on only having one beer since I needed to be able to pay Jiffy Lube, which was expensive thanks to modern oil prices. I asked Marty if she knew any place cheaper that would do a good job, and she gave me that crow's foot twinkle-eye and said, "I'll do you one better. Meet me at Paylow Auto Parts on Frances Street tomorrow morning, and I'll show you how to do it yourself."

I found out, during the course of that bizarre, greasy learning experience, that Marty once worked in a garage. She didn't have a mechanic's license herself, but neither did a lot of people—that's why the Paylow sold mechanic's manuals for individual makes and models. Her motto was simple: Harleys are high-maintenance vehicles and foreign cars require expensive foreign parts, so it's important to know how to work on your own ride, especially with the economy going to crap. This suited my own philosophy of self-reliance perfectly. So one weekend it was changing my oil and hers, the next lesson was replacing my brake shoes, the one after that was suspension rods for Marty's bike, until before I knew it I was the one suggesting aftermarket modifications and asking if we could work on her old man's bike, too. This might have seemed a strange way to spend my rare free time, but it was relaxing somehow. Today we were installing a customized exhaust pipe.

"So Brown hasn't seen Celeste in five years?" I asked, fingering my socket wrench for a second before tightening the next bolt.

"Nope. Neither of her parents has seen her," Marty confirmed, shivering a little and scooting closer to the space heater in the corner. "She was living with her mother up until she turned eighteen, then she took off. She never really said why, but we know her boyfriend skipped town at the same time. He came back a year later, but she didn't."

"Does anyone know if she's okay?" I wondered, trying to wrap my coat tighter around me.

My friend looked at the bits of hardware laid out on an old towel. "She used to send postcards to Danny Junior. When those stopped coming, Brown hired a private eye to find her. The detective tracked her to a titty-bar in Manitoba. That picture we have up in the bar was taken as she was on her way to work. Celeste refused any contact with either of her parents, but she made sure to pass along that she wasn't living in poverty or anything and didn't need any help. Brown accepted that—it's something we all go through. He just wanted to know she was safe."

"Jesus," I muttered, wondering what it would do to Charlie if I ever just dropped off the face of the earth like that. He still called me every couple of weeks, like he did when I was little, only now it wasn't a veiled excuse to hear my mother's voice. "Why did Brown and his wife break up, anyway?"

"Why does anyone break up?" Marty responded rhetorically. "Didn't get along, didn't want to spend the rest of her life running a bar, hell if I know. Whatever Yvonne told him when she left probably wasn't the real reason anyway. You know how it is."

I made no further response, just kept working until I thought I was done while Marty watched soundlessly nearby.

"You know, Bella," Marty offered quietly as we double-checked my handiwork, "If you ever want to talk about Him in here, you can. I know you don't tell all your college buddies, and I get that, because those are some nosy, fake-ass motherfuckers." I grinned to myself—Shalice's friends weren't much kinder when they spoke of my 'biker buddies,' and generally both sides accused each other of having venereal disease. "You've got to stay focused when it comes to education," Marty continued, "but this guy doesn't have to be something you only talk about in the bar."

I sighed and stood up, carefully putting my tools away in my bright red toolbox. I had long ago scratched out the initials "R.H.C." and engraved "Bella" on the lid with a Dremel rotary tool. Not my initials, and not my surname. Just Bella.

"Thanks, Marty," I replied sincerely. "But in here, he's not part of me, or this." In this garage, helping Marty turn hunks of metal into a thing of beauty, I wasn't confused. I wasn't broken. Renee couldn't pester me, Charlie didn't look at me with that sad expression, and there was no school, no job, no desperate attempt to fill the hours so I didn't have to think about anything. There wasn't even alcohol or harsh memories. There was metal and grease and my friend and me, and everything was broken down into rules that made sense.

Marty looked at me speculatively for a few moments. "Fair enough. But what about everywhere else?"

I shook my head. "Nope. It's as if he never existed."

Marty folded her arms and frowned. "What kind of stupid shit is that? Of course he _existed_. Just because he went away doesn't mean he didn't impact your life."

I smirked a little. "See, _you_ get it." And just like that, I knew how the mental conversation would go next time I went to the corner table at the Chatterbox. "Come on," I said, jerking my head toward the garage door. "Time for you to test this baby and see how I did."

Marty tossed me the key from the workbench behind her, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Fire it up."

My face lit up with surprise. "Really?" A genuine thrill went through me as the engine roared to life.

* * *

February 2008

The Chatterbox

Vancouver, BC

Tonight was different.

I'd sat on those barstools before and laughed, listened, made friends, and bemoaned the inescapable fact of being Renee's daughter. I'd sat at this table many times and cried, made hopeless wishes, soaked in my own sadness. But tonight was just different.

Tonight I was helplessly angry at my boss, because the asshole scheduled me for weekend shifts that wouldn't allow me to take my class trip to Anthony Island, and when I tried to tell him that I'd requested those days off well in advance, he said he "didn't remember that conversation," and that was that. I was furious that my project partner got the same grade I did without doing her fair share of research, claiming she was dealing with her Nana's death back home when really, her roommate revealed, she just spent the weekend with her boyfriend in Seattle, which she could have waited until midterm break to do. I bitched her out for it until I was sure she'd never look me in the eye again, but she still got my good grade, so the victory was hollow. I was irritated with my father, because when I tried to call him to vent, I got his voice mail. I was infuriated with my mother, who still wouldn't let up about 'cute boys' and how I needed to stop being so finicky and just pick one already. And on top of everything else, once again I couldn't. Fucking. Sleep.

Tonight I wasn't just hurt; I was _pissed._

_I promise that this will be the last time you'll see me._

Did you ever stop and think maybe I would _want_ to see you, you stupid PEPET̸IN? Or Alice and Esme, at least? Didn't you ever consider that they were my family, too? At least, I thought so. It seemed like they did, too. That couldn't have been my imagination.

_We won't bother you again._

You miserable bastard. You weren't bothering me; you were _loving_ me, or at least letting me believe as much. Worse, you were letting me love _you_. Maybe what you meant to say was: _We won't be bothered by _you_ again._ Because that's sure as shit what it feels like from here.

_Of course, I'll always love you…in a way…your memory is no more than a sieve…_

You had everything backwards. Your love and my memory…backwards. I'll always know you exist, right up until I wither and die. You'll be a part of me when I take my last breath. And you won't love me any more then than you did the day you took off.

None of them loved me. They were fine before I came along, and they were fine after I left. At least I could understand Rosalie's reaction; she hated me, and she was honest about that. Her leaving I could stomach, because she never lied about how she felt about me. But the rest of them…they treated me like a sister, a daughter, and then they became indifferent. An entire family of experienced pretenders…why was I surprised, really? Alice didn't need a disposable Skipper doll when she had an unbreakable Barbie for a sister.

So much for the eternal bonds formed by Your Kind.

_Oh Bella._

"Don't 'Oh Bella' me, you lying, heartless motherfucker."

_I'll always love you…in a way._

"You don't even know what love is."

"Bella," Brown hissed in my ear, "your cab is here."

"Shit. I have to be at work at ten tomorrow."

"_Bella_," he groaned. "Just make sure you drink some water and eat a piece of bread before you go to sleep."

"You'd increase your revenue if you started selling bread and water at the bar," I slurred. He only rolled his eyes.

Water and bread. Bread and water. Like a sacrament, like taking communion in some Protestant version of the Catholic ritual. Like forgiveness could be obtained with a fucking snack. 'This wine turns into my blood the moment it touches your tongue.' 'Sacrifice the best lamb in your flock to me, then fry it up and eat it.' 'Chop the head off that chicken and I'll take care of whatever dumb shit you did this year.' 'Cut the heart out of a virgin to appease me.' Either gods were assholes, or people made up some really stupid gods. I'd always compared vampires to gods in my head, but maybe I had that reversed. With all their demands for blood and sacrifice, maybe gods were vampires.

"We're here, lady. That'll be $8.50."

Fucking cab company, sending me a damn newbie instead of my regular driver. "Don't bullshit me, _cabrón_. I'm drunk, not stupid. Brown _always_ pays the cabbie before I get in."

A sigh. "Yeah. Sorry."

"Damn right you're sorry," I told him, slamming the car door.

Stairs. When did we get so many fuckin' stairs?

"Bella? Jesus shit, it's two o'clock in the morning!"

"Yeah, I know. Sorry for waking you up." My face was flushed with warmth, and all I wanted to do was to lie down and bury myself in the cool pillow.

"Wait, Bella, I forgot to give you a message. Some lady named Jenna called for you this morning from…financial aid. Something about another scholarship you qualified for, or were awarded, or something. Damn," she yawned, "where'd I leave that paper with her number?"

Too bad she didn't mention that earlier. "Leave it for tomorrow."

"How much did you have to drink?"

I grabbed a bottle of water from my mini-fridge. "Don't worry about it. Goodnight."

"I just want to know which language I get to hear you speaking in your sleep tonight."

"_k__̱__'aay ts'aawaay k'aayhlg__̱__ahl da gan—taay hla._" _The Stars have turned over—go to bed._ My Haida accent always got better when I was drunk.

"What the hell was that?"

"Good_night_, Shalice."

* * *

April 2008

Hamber House, Place Vanier

UBC

"Bells, are you sure you don't want to come home for the summer this year?"

I rolled my eyes, grateful we weren't living in the age of everyone having videophones in their houses so he couldn't see my expression. "Dad, the university's Museum of Anthropology is world-renowned. Do you know how great it is that they're letting me stay in the country to intern there? If I'm good at it, they'll ask me back next year. This is exactly the kind of opportunity you've always wanted for me."

I heard him sigh. "That sounds good, and I sure am proud of you. But what are you going to do for money and a place to stay?"

Ah, the hazards of operating with only a temporary student visa. "My advisor made arrangements for me to stay in summer housing, and I've still got my campus job." I also lined up an under-the-table gig as a barmaid at the Chatterbox. No wage, but I could keep all my tips. Brown had hired others to do the same in the past, and he made enough profit from the booze during tourist season not to need the extra money from tips. His only rule: no drinking on the clock. I had to save that for my nights off.

Charlie didn't need to know about any of that. Just like nobody needed to know about the untouched money in the safe. Half the time I didn't want to know about it, either. Sometimes I wished I'd never taken it.

"Well, if you're sure."

"Yes, Dad, I'm positive." I was sure I didn't want to spend another summer in Forks. Other than the week from hell with my mother, last summer was lonely, boring, and socially uncomfortable. I couldn't go anywhere, including the rez, without getting _that look_ from people who remembered my past. There was no place to go that wasn't connected with some unwanted memory unless I drove two hours to Aberdeen to hit the SouthShore Mall or the movie theater, which just weren't worth the trip. There were no good restaurants, no decent libraries in a reasonable distance, and I couldn't come to the Chatterbox to see the only people I had any interest in seeing. I couldn't drink at home without arousing suspicion, I couldn't hit the bars because I was still underage in the States, and I couldn't drink with the other local underage kids because it would make things awkward for Charlie if I got caught. I couldn't even do Distance Learning through the university because they weren't offering summer classes online. There was simply no incentive to be in Forks.

"Are you going to tell your mom, or do you want me to do it?" my father offered.

I almost took him up on it, but decided to spare him the headache. "I'll just send her an e-mail tomorrow. I have to finish my paper." I had no time to listen to her hysterics, as if it made a difference which country I'd be working in when I had no plans to stay with her either way. "Gotta go, Dad. Say hello to Billy for me."

"Okay, Bella. Love you."

"Yeah," I said clumsily, looking at an imperfection on the surface of my desk. "You too."

With a resigned sigh, I hung up and turned my attention back to the reference books in front of me—leftovers from the Cullen private collection that they'd chosen to leave behind, suddenly useful to me. Since I had lived on the Olympic Peninsula, I was doing a comparative essay on the Quileute and Makah tribes. I knew they intermarried _now_ (according to Charlie, Sue had nieces there) but their indigenous languages weren't from the same family at all. 'Makah' wasn't even a Makah word—their real name was Qwiqwidicciat, 'people who live by the rocks and seagulls.'

Apparently Jasper had taken a passing interest in the subject as well. And by 'passing,' I meant 'owned ten different hardbacks related to the same thing.' He had the surprisingly human tendency to write his name in his books; his mortal surname, I realized, must have been Whitlock. _I wonder if Alice took that name when she married him?_ With a shake of my head, I banished that odd bit of reflection and focused on the here and now. In addition to this paper, I also had finals to study for, and that was always stressful.

"You coming with us to Gatsby's this Friday?" Shalice asked from her desk.

"Sure, I guess," I said absently. "Blow off some steam before everybody splits up for summer." Weak drinks, bubble-gum pop music, and a crowd of Shalice's friends. _Wonderful._ Maybe I would just stay for an hour or so to humor her and then catch a cab to the place I really wanted to be. I hadn't been to the Chatterbox (or anywhere for that matter) in over two full weeks; I was so busy with essays and semester projects and work.

"You know, there's a totally hot guy there who's been checking you out," she said conspiratorially.

"Huh," I mumbled, uninterested. "Anybody we know?" Always trying to set me up. She meant well, but I really didn't need more club-hopping people in my life.

"No," she answered breezily. "I've only seen him around for the last month or two. He's probably a freshman who barely discovered the joys of social life."

"You know how I feel about strangers," I replied, hoping the subject would close so I could finish my work uninterrupted.

"I know, I know, 'nobody who doesn't come with references,'" she recited.

"Exactly." Even Renee saw the wisdom in that rule of thumb, seeing as I was in a 'foreign land,' though she didn't know the real reason behind it. Nobody did.

_Rule One: Never trust anyone you can't prove exists._

"Bella?" my roommate said tentatively. "Can I ask you something?"

I sighed and turned away from my laptop—it was a top of the line machine three years ago, and it proved invaluable once I wiped Emmett's World of Warcraft crap from the memory. "I know that voice, Shalice. Out with it."

She looked away for a moment. "Is there some reason why you never date anyone?"

"I've been out on a couple of dates," I objected. This question was _ridiculous_ coming from her. "Remember that guy you set me up with a couple months ago?" I'd been thoroughly bored by the blonde kinesiology major who kept talking about kayaking. He seemed to think that because I once worked at a sporting goods store, I would actually be interested in the topic. In order to preserve my sanity, I lied and told my mother we went out three times before deciding to part ways. "What was his name? Robbie? Bobby?"

"Jeremy, as you very well know," Shalice said dryly. "That's actually my point. You've been on a handful of dates since I met you, you never go out with a guy more than once, you don't bother to keep in touch with any of them, and you don't even seem to care that it never works out. Are you…is there something you're not telling me?"

_Rule Two: Don't get attached—you only lose what you cling to._

I gazed at her almost childlike expression, blinking once. "Like what?"

"Well…" For once, I wasn't the conversation participant who was blushing with discomfort. "Were you…assaulted or something?"

I smiled gently and shook my head. Last semester I taught my roommate several defensive maneuvers, taking care to remind her _never_ to walk the streets alone at night, and insisted that she call me for a ride if she ever needed to bail on a date, no matter what time it was or what I had going on the next day. She had taken me up on it once already. "I had a close call once, but I wasn't abused or anything. Thanks for caring, though."

She nodded, accepting that, but her eyes were still full of questions. "In that case, is there maybe another reason you aren't with anyone? Something you're afraid to tell me? Because you think it'll make things weird between us?"

That last part sounded hesitant, almost suggestive; I smirked a little. "Are you asking me if I'm gay?"

She didn't respond right away, but she looked at me in earnest. "If you're a lesbian, it's okay. You don't have to hide it. You're still my friend."

I sighed good-naturedly. I'd known this question was bound to come up eventually, and I had my answer ready. "No, Shalice. I'm not into girls." I waggled my eyebrows at her. "Although you are pretty cute." Actually, for a while I considered telling Renee I was a homosexual just so she'd leave me alone, but I dismissed the idea. First of all, I felt it was demeaning toward gay people, and second, I realized she'd either a) freak out and tell Charlie, probably resulting in cardiac arrest; b) start spouting her surprisingly non-liberal opinion about how lesbians were just too lazy to try making things work with a man, or c) pester me with renewed enthusiasm once she realized gay marriage was legal in Canada. She changed her opinions like she changed hobbies. It was too hard to keep up with her personal politics, so I stopped trying years ago.

Shalice giggled at me. "Sorry. I just wasn't sure. It's hard to know what to make of you sometimes. You've got some nice, fancy clothes in that closet that you almost never wear, but you've also got all the Harley t-shirts and those ass-kicking boots. You'd rather go to the Chatterbox than the club most of the time, after Christmas you got that weird tribal tattoo on your shoulder that's vaguely shaped like a motorcycle, and your closest friend is a middle-aged woman named Marty…"

"And I've spent almost every other Saturday in her garage since our freshman year, not including summer break and holidays," I finished smoothly, my smile fading a little. "You do understand that all the engine grease under my fingernails is from restoring her bike and working on my car, don't you? It's not some kind of weird sexual fetish. I'm just doing something I like on my days off. So it's not girly. Does that really matter?"

"It doesn't matter to me what your hobbies are, or even your sexual preference," my friend countered, annoyed. "I'm just concerned. Sometimes I still hear you crying in your sleep, and you're always alone."

"Oh god," I groaned. "Please don't start talking about cute boys as if they're the answer to whatever problem you think I have. I stopped taking calls from Renee for two months the last time she pulled that shit. What have I told you about trusting a handsome face to make everything better?"

_Rule Three: Don't rely on anyone else; the only person with the power or desire to take care of me is _me_._

"I don't mean it like _that_," Shalice assured me. "I know how you feel about independence, but that doesn't mean you have to sacrifice everything else. I mean, when you go out on these rare dates, do you even kiss these guys?"

I shut my eyes for just a moment, trying to force away the crippling sense of _litost_. "No. I haven't liked any of them well enough." _Don't feel it now. Tuck it away. Save it for later._

Shalice rolled her eyes at me. "It's just kissing, Bella."

I turned back around in my chair, dimly aware of the images on the screen in front of me. "It shouldn't be _just_ kissing." My voice came out sharper than I intended. "It should mean something." It meant _everything_.

"I'm sorry," Shalice said softly behind me, "I didn't mean to upset you."

"I'm fine," I lied, fighting an unexpected wave of nausea. "I just need to concentrate so I can hurry up and get this paper done by tonight." I looked down at the floor…

Neon blue lights flickered over my head.

_Yesterday I kiss you, and you attack me! Today you pass out on me!_

Oh screw you. You knew what the hell you were doing. You said you were designed to attract your prey. You seduced me with simple kisses that set my heart on fire. Now I can't even think about kissing anyone else without wanting to vomit, let alone the idea of having sex with any of them. You ruined this for me, too, just like you ruined everything else. And for what? So you could have fun toying with me for a little while? _Sg̱aana g̱id ids iijii anag̱uun—the Supernatural Being is watching out of curiosity._ Were you at least satisfied?

_I'm…_tired_ of pretending to be something I'm not. I am not human._

No, you're a beautiful fucking demon, and goddamn it if you weren't the best kiss of my short, insignificant little human life.

_I've let this go on much too long, and I'm sorry for that._

"What the fuck do you know about too long? You're going to outlive me by eons, and you can't come back and see me for five fucking minutes?"

"Bella, come on, that's enough."

"No, Brown, it's not enough. Nothing was ever enough. I wasn't good enough. He fucking _told_ me so."

"Well then he was a dipshit, but right now you sound like one, too, so let's get you in the cab."

I sighed and sat quietly in the backseat as my usual taxi driver took me back to the dorms. Funny, the way He said he was tired of pretending to be human. Sometimes it seemed like I knew exactly how he felt.

"You want me to flag down campus security to walk you the rest of the way?"

I blinked and looked out the window. My cab had come to a stop as close to my dorm as it could. "Nah, I'm good. Thanks for the lift." I met the driver's worried grey eyes in his rearview mirror. "Stay parked and watch me get inside the door, yeah?"

"Okay, sure. Goodnight, Bella."

"Good night, Alex."

God damn it, why didn't we have an elevator in this corridor? Always with the fucking stairs…who's playing piano in the practice room this late? Why didn't they close the damn door? "Hey, asshole!" I yelled down the hall. "Shut up! People are trying to sleep! Don't you know there's a noise curfew after 9:00?"

_I'm sorry for that._

"Fuck you and your 'sorry!' Just shut the hell up. I have to get to bed."

Water. Bread. Sleep. Gotta study tomorrow. Fucking finals.

* * *

June 2008

Thunderbird Year Round Student Housing

UBC

I sat on my bed, staring at the unassuming brown cardboard shipping box. The label was computer-printed with a confirmation bar code, addressed to me but with no return address.

_There's no reason to be nervous_, I told myself. All the same, I checked the apartment one last time. The other three bedrooms were all empty, as was the bathroom and the living area. My temporary roommates (who I kept away from as much as possible, the meddlesome, eavesdropping bitches) were all either at class or at work, and I had at least the next three hours to myself. Even so, I made sure to lock my bedroom door and crank up some loud blues tunes before I turned back to the box.

I wasn't sure what I was expecting when I removed the product box from the shipping box, but this just seemed so…generic. Even so, I mopped up piss, vomit, and spilled beer _and_ went entirely without booze for a month to save up for this. For sixty-five dollars plus shipping, I certainly wasn't going to not open up the packaging.

I made sure I had everything I needed in place before I quietly disrobed and crawled into bed, making sure to lie on a towel.

_Sexy thoughts. Sexy thoughts. God, I don't even know what I'm supposed to be thinking about. How do women do this all the time? This is so embarrassing. Shit, Bella, just get it over with. _Not sure what exactly I was supposed to do, I applied the cold fluid onto my body, and then some more onto the device. Was that right? Did I do that backwards?

One good thing about being such a terrible klutz most of my life: I didn't have to worry about bleeding from hymen breakage. Apparently some long-ago fall took care of that for me. It did not, however, take care of the strange stretching sensation. Curious, how it didn't really hurt, at least not all that much. The gynecologist who performed my first well-woman exam told me that if my partner (I tried very hard not to react when she said that) was gentle, it shouldn't be painful. So I focused my thoughts only on my own body, how much pressure felt good, and how deep I could go before I became uncomfortable. When I grew accustomed to it, I depressed one of the small buttons with my thumb.

_Oh fuck!_

Suddenly gasping, I squirmed and wiggled, twisted my hand, trying to adjust until I found a place that felt good, maybe better than good. The exterior part of the machine tickled me in a spot I found simultaneously pleasurable and excruciating—maybe that meant I was doing something wrong. I lay there writhing, not at all sure what to do with my legs, trying to find that elusive orgasm I heard so much about, until I just couldn't take it anymore and abruptly pulled the damn thing out and shut it off. Clearly, this was going to take practice. And maybe one or two drinks first next time. I wasn't interested in pornography, but maybe I should watch one just for instructional purposes, since I clearly had no idea what the hell I was doing.

After a few minutes of quiet contemplation, I got up, washed the strange contraption with Toy Cleaner as instructed, and hid everything away in the brown box, tucking it behind my winter scarves at the very back of the top shelf in my closet. Silently, I made my way back to the bathroom, deciding a long hot bath was in order for combating the slight soreness.

_It's not about love,_ I thought as I slid into the gleaming white tub filled with steam and bubbles. _It's not about lust or attraction or anything. It's just something my body needs. Like food. Like shelter or medicine. It's not about anyone else. It's not about Him._

I felt the first tears beginning to form in my eyes, and my fingers seemed almost magnetically drawn to my throat, to the pulse point, drifting down to trace my collarbone with the lightest touch I could manage.

_It's not about Him. It's not._

* * *

October 2008

The Chatterbox

Vancouver, BC

I swallowed my fourth or fifth drink of the night.

_You're intoxicated by my very presence._

No shit, Edward. Wasn't that your intent—?

"Motherfucker, you need to shut up before I shut you up!" The shout rang out over the sound of the jukebox from the other side of the room.

"Fuck _you_, cocksucker!"

I could hear the crunching sound of fist connecting with face followed by groaning, swearing, someone getting knocked over, and the distinct sounds of pissed off drunks. "Hey!" Brown snarled. "Take that shit outside!"

I looked up and saw two men yelling and a third person picking himself up off the floor, livid because his beer had been knocked over and this wasn't his fight to begin with.

Ah, but it was now.

Shit.

The women closest to the door ran out, and the ones near the bathrooms hid in the ladies room. But I, in my far corner, had no door to retreat to.

Breaking glass. Fists flying.

_Shit!_

I grabbed my coat and slithered under the pool table. My jeans and boots would protect my legs from superficial scratches if any glass slid my way, and I used my jacket to protect my head. I waited it out, occasionally peeking to see boots scraping across the concrete floor and bodies falling. A few faces were actually smiling, which I found hilarious even through my last remaining particle of fear. An open knife slid across the room, stopping just within my reach. I grabbed for the handle as quickly as I could, gripping it tightly with a trembling fist, ready to use it if necessary. I had no illusions about what alcohol could make a man willing to do, even a man who'd never hurt me before, and I'd rather just die than suffer that.

Then there were distant sirens, women swearing, boots stomping out the door, and the sound of fifteen Harleys all being started up at once and peeling the fuck out. I lifted a corner of my coat to look.

"Bella?" Brown's anxious voice called out. "Honey, where are you?"

"She's under here," another man answered. A pair of dirty, steel-toed work boots stopped a meter away from me, catching the yellow-white light from the lamp that hung over the pool table. Then there were denim knees, rough hands, and an olive-skinned face framed with inky black hair. "Miss Bella?"

I pulled the coat entirely away from my head, but kept the switchblade in my hand. It took me a few seconds before I recognized the face as one of the semi-regulars I served over the summer. A good tipper, he occasionally came in with a date and usually drank no more than three beers, always from local independent microbreweries—I laughed whenever he ordered Swans Oatmeal Stout. His knuckles were bruised from the fight, and he might have a shiner in the morning, but he smiled at me in a way that was reassuring. I stopped shaking.

"Why don't you close that knife, Miss Bella, and I'll help you up. Don't worry, I won't hurt you."

I considered my position for a moment. I didn't know how to close a switchblade, so instead I dropped it and shoved it away from us, watching as it slid to a shadowed corner where wall met floor and bench seat—nobody would find it there for a long time. The man smiled again and offered me his uninjured hand. I took it, letting him gently drag me out from my hiding place and help me stand on my own feet.

"You okay?" he asked, holding my jacket open for me. His skin was one or two shades lighter than the Quileutes' back home, and his eyes were bright and friendly.

"Yeah," I whispered back, swaying just a little as I turned around to slip into the proffered sleeves. "You?"

"Nothing a little ice won't fix," he chuckled. "I'm Ben."

"Right. Ben," I remembered. "Bella."

"I know." He looked me over, but not in a creepy way. "First bar fight?"

"Mhmm," I answered, leaning against the pool table. Whoever had been shooting solids was in the perfect position to bankshot the one-ball in the side pocket, but there was a rip in the felt that would have ruined the shot.

"You're holding up pretty well," Ben remarked, looking a little surprised. He flexed his hand a few times, testing for broken knuckles, I supposed.

Scratching at the long, divaricated scar on my arm beneath the scuffed-up suede sleeve, I calmly informed him, "I've seen worse fights." Was he expecting me to cry or something? If a bunch of humans wanted to kick each other's asses, it was fine by me as long as they left me alone. It wasn't like they were trying to feed on me.

The creaking sound of the front door distracted us before Ben could reply. We both turned as the first Vancouver cop walked in and headed straight for Brown while the second one stared at us. Great.

With a long-suffering sigh I walked forward, forgoing a pretense at stumbling but ready to tell the cops I didn't see anything. Truthfully, I didn't see who threw the first punch or who pulled a knife, and I was technically too drunk to be a reliable witness even if I had. "C'mon Ben," I called over my shoulder with a business-like tone, "let's get some ice on that eye."

He laughed, the sound strangely light coming from his deep voice. "Yes ma'am."

That night, I got all the way home before I realized that in all the chaos, I forgot to be miserable.

* * *

November 2008

The Chatterbox

Vancouver, BC

"So Brown," I said off-handedly, centering the new green felt carefully over the tabletop, "how'd you meet Marty anyway?"

It was a Sunday, the middle of the month. The Chatterbox was closed today, which was the perfect opportunity for me to complete my project: resurfacing the pool table. Brown had been meaning to get around to it ever since a couple of drunk travelers on their way to California tried to shoot a game of eight-ball and ripped up the fabric with a cue stick. Since Brown and Marty had been taking turns passing bronchitis back and forth to each other for well over a month now, and I had some free time anyway, I offered to do this for them. The library had a book of instructions with photographs, and that guy Ben loaned us most of the necessary tools (which really weren't anything too sophisticated, but they were things I didn't have, like a putty knife). I checked and rechecked the fabric alignment before folding back one half of the felt.

"Met her here," Brown answered hoarsely, holding a cigarette between his fingers but not lighting it—his doctor expressly forbid smoking at least until he'd completed his course of antibiotics. That, and I would be working with something flammable. "She moved down here from Prince George after her old man got locked up."

I stopped what I was doing and stood up straight. "What?"

"She never told you?" Brown looked genuinely surprised.

"I knew she was divorced, but that's it," I clarified, remembering our garage conversations. "She never wanted to talk about it much, and I didn't press her." I didn't push her, she didn't push me, but we were both willing to listen—that was our understanding.

"Mhmm," Brown nodded, putting on his paper face mask when he saw me reach for mine. "She was married to an asshole named Chris. They had their own garage. Did well, too. But sometimes he'd just be gone, and he didn't have a good explanation. Marty thought he was cheating on her, but it turned out he was acquiring parts from stolen vehicles and trafficking heroin." After a beat, he added, "And cheating on her."

"Holy shit," I hissed, propping a chair in front of the front door to hold it open. I hated to let out all the warm air when Brown was sick, but the need for ventilation was greater. "Talk about adding insult to injury."

"Yeah," Brown nodded. "The investigators concluded that Marty wasn't involved in any criminal activity, but she lost everything. The business, her life savings, everything except her bike."

Marty always seemed so well-adjusted and sensible to me. "I never would have guessed she went through such a clusterfuck."

"That's why she doesn't want to own half the bar—I give her a management salary with profit-sharing instead." Brown lowered his mask to sip at his coffee mug. "Anyway, after the conviction and the divorce, she scraped together a little money and came here to look for work and start over."

"And then she met you," I presumed, covering my eyes with safety glasses and shaking up a can of spray-on adhesive.

"Actually," he corrected me, "she met my wife."

I hesitated before I sprayed the pungent glue. "Come again?"

"Marty and Yvonne knew each other," Brown explained while I worked. "They weren't close friends, but sometimes we'd all talk when Marty came in for a few beers. When Yvonne left me, Marty stepped in to help me with the bar. Things just sort of grew from there."

Brown switched on the box fan when I put my can of glue down, blowing the Krylon fumes away. Some of the epoxy got on my suede coat, but there was nothing to be done about it now. Rubbing down the felt over the glue with a circular motion, I sipped at my Sprite through a straw and let Brown change the subject. He always liked to hear me talk about my work at the museum, my research trips, and the people I met at the reserves. I figured it had to do with missing out on that part of his kids' lives, but he said it was because it made him feel smarter, and because those things made me smile.

Thinking about what we had each lost, I decided that if Brown and Marty could go through life without wallowing in self-pity, I could, too. Maybe then I'd smile more often, and so would they.

* * *

December 2008

Renee's House

Jacksonville, FL

"Look who's standing under the mistletoe!"

My mother, in her nefarious plot to socialize me like some six-week-old puppy, had special ordered ten pounds of mistletoe from some website and tacked it up all over the house for her annual holiday party. It was like an aerial assault. Fortunately for me, the only men she found even remotely close to my age were the gym teacher and computer lab teacher who taught at her school, a few of Phil's younger cousins visiting from Arkansas and Louisiana, a couple of assistant coaches who worked at the local high school with Phil, and some neighbors who evidently were led to believe I was a globe-trotting supermodel instead of a normal person. I almost felt sorry for them, being set up for disappointment like that. That was Renee for you.

Times like this, I wished I had my lip pierced and that tattoo inked on my neck instead of my shoulder blade. Even though I rejected those things as a bit too Suicide Girl-ish for my taste, they would have suited my frayed jeans and vintage Harley t-shirt a lot better than this stupid Santa hat Renee insisted I wear. As it was, I was sure I would need to get very drunk to get through the rest of this damned party full of strangers. With a smile, I remembered that I was twenty-one now, and I didn't have to hide my drinking from my mother. Technically I never hid it from her in the first place, but now I could be open about it and get hammered in _this_ country.

So, rather than remain under the most evil of plants and let myself be kissed by some beer-goggled guy I'd never seen before tonight (honestly, what the hell was wrong with my mother? Some of these men were _fifty!_), I made my way over to the drink table, scooped a little ice from the cooler into a red plastic cup, and poured myself a generous serving of Jack mixed with about half a can of Coke. I knew Renee could see me and would probably suggest her weak-ass eggnog as more 'my speed.' With this in mind, I took a long swallow of my drink. The room, already warm from the throng of Phil and Renee's guests, rapidly grew hotter, and I wished my mother would have opened more windows. After nearly four years in the northwest I hated too much heat, but I wasn't such a baby that I couldn't tolerate it for a while. There was an unadorned bit of ceiling next to the TV, so I moved to stand there, desperate to avoid being kissed. Of course, someone came to strike up a conversation immediately.

"What are you studying in school?" Neighbor Boy asked me with what must have been his most charming grin, a bottle of Bud in his hand.

"Linguistic anthropology," I replied, relaxing just enough to smile back but not so much that I didn't notice how close the guy was standing in front of me. I took a step backward automatically.

"Wow, really? That's…awesome." He looked uncomfortable with that information for some reason, but took a drink of his Budweiser to cover it. "How many languages do you speak so far?"

"Besides the two I learned growing up?" I asked. "Three. I specialize in aboriginal languages." I wasn't considered perfectly fluent in any of them yet, but I felt confident that I would be very soon—I was one of the top students in my Advanced language classes. Now that my university finally hired a teacher for it, I'd also picked up Ktunaxa, a language that was culturally isolated and unique, and I spent several weekends this semester visiting the Columbia Lake Band in Windermere to hear the sounds spoken firsthand by the few remaining fluent speakers. Beyond that, I found that I enjoyed having a variety of ways to express myself, I took pride in preserving something worth treasuring, and I loved the way mastering these languages made me feel, like I was connected to something greater than myself. But nobody ever thought that was interesting besides students and faculty in my department (and Brown), which was why I didn't go into detail in casual conversation. Instead I said the usual: "I get to travel, meet some interesting people, and hear wonderful stories."

"Cool," Neighbor Boy said, trying to look like he meant it. _Yeah, like he cared_. "I speak a little French."

"That's nice," I said as politely as my intoxication level would allow. That would have served him well in Quebec, but who takes French in _Florida?_ I lived in Canada and even I didn't feel the need to learn French yet. Cantonese, perhaps, but not French. Maybe he wanted to communicate with Haitian immigrants down in Miami; maybe he just took high school French because he had to meet his language requirement to graduate. _Maybe I should stop mentally picking him apart and just have a civilized conversation._ "What's _your_ major?"

I dutifully went through the same battery of monotonous questions I asked every time Shalice introduced me to a new friend of hers. Neighbor Boy was a nineteen-year-old freshman at Jacksonville U. He hadn't picked a major, he still didn't know what he wanted to be when he 'grew up,' his favorite show was _Supernatural_, he loved Anne Rice novels, and prior to college he played baseball at the school where Phil coached. As an outfielder.

I did not like Neighbor Boy very much at that point in the conversation, and then he tipped the scales. "I didn't think Renee was old enough to have a daughter your age. She must have gotten started very young."

"Don't let her hear you say that," I smirked. "Her ego will overinflate." Renee looked every bit of forty-one—we'd spent too many years in the desert sun for that not to be the case. Then I thought more carefully about what Neighbor Boy was saying. "Wait, how old do you think I am?"

"I don't know, like, twenty-five or so?" He shrugged, pulled my red cup out of my hand, and took a sip of my drink, grimacing a little at the strength of it. "Yeah, no girls I know can stomach anything this hardcore. This is a man's drink." Asshole. Maybe the little girls he dated got sloshed on wine coolers, but grown women drank highballs all the time. I would know—I spent all summer serving them. Why did I always attract the sexist assholes?

I looked up at this doe-eyed teenager with his sun-streaked hair and goofy face. A deeper appraisal of his eyes told me he was very drunk. "And you think a twenty-five-year-old woman is hanging around with a nineteen-year-old boy because…?"

He grinned, swerved a little, and handed back my drink. Fucking lightweight. "You're on vacation and you want non-committal action?"

"You think I want sex?" Un. Fucking. Believable. "You think I came to spend Christmas with my _mother_ so I could have sex with the local jailbait?"

"Well…" Neighbor Boy frowned uncomfortably and ran his fingers through his hair nervously; the unintentional gesticular impersonation made me hate him by proxy. "Renee was at my parents' house one night last week, and they all had a little too much wine. She said something about you needing to stop being so serious and just get laid. That's when she invited me to—"

I was striding away from him and toward my tipsy mother in the next breath. If I'd been buzzed at all, I was sure as shit sober now. "Renee," I hissed in her ear, clutching her arm like a vice, "I need to speak to you privately. Now."

"Coming, sweet—"

I didn't even let her finish speaking or excuse herself before dragging her off to the guestroom I was staying in and slamming the door behind us. "You brought me here," I growled, "for a booty call?" Just _saying_ it sounded ridiculous.

"Do you like him?" Renee giggled. "His name is Jonathan. He lives a few houses down, and—"

"Do I look especially pleased right now?" I interrupted. Renee stopped laughing. "Do I look like I'm ready to jump that kid's bones? Do I look the _slightest_ bit happy to you?"

My mother looked me up and down. "You look pissed off. And you look awfully uptight for someone dressed like a grease monkey." She scowled at me, her expression just as disapproving as it had been when I refused to put on the girlie-looking green mini-dress she wanted me to wear for her party—she was wearing a red one just like it.

Outing myself as a biker wasn't hard. Once I assured her I wasn't gay, she seemed glad that I "found a hobby," but otherwise didn't take me seriously, understandable given that I had no bike. Condescension like that, I could endure patiently. Listening to Renee bitch about how hard it would be to attract a man while dressed like Dennis Hopper in _Easy Rider_—that was another matter. Thankfully, Phil stepped in before I pointed out that she wanted the two of us to dress something like one of the prostitutes from the same movie. I didn't see anything wrong with looking sexy, but I had my own definition. Peacekeeping aside, I wasn't about to change who I was for her, nor was I going to put myself out on display on her showroom floor.

"Get this through your head, Mother," I sneered, ripping the stupid Santa hat off my head and tossing it to the floor. "I am here to visit you. I am not here for a quick fuck. I'm well aware that you're the daughter of former hippies, but I'm the daughter of a cop who was never around and a woman who left me alone in the house to raise myself. Your carefree attitude about this isn't something I share."

"It's just sex," Renee replied, looking around for something. "Jesus, lighten up. I thought bikers didn't give a damn about anything." She pulled a small box down off a top shelf and produced a pack of cigarettes and a cheap lighter, then headed over to one of the open windows.

"This isn't the eighties anymore," I groaned, sinking onto the bed. "Gay men aren't the only ones who get AIDS. You can't just sleep around because you're bored and expect to get out of the consequences with an abortion or some penicillin."

"So use a condom, Bella. Problem solved." She tapped the green and white package expertly, withdrawing her cigarette and lifting it to her mouth. "I put some in the nightstand just in case."

I smacked the heel of my hand against my forehead, then downed a little more of my drink. _Ladies and gentleman, your hostess and colleague, my mother._ "God, it was such a mistake for me to come here." Every fucking time…

"Why, because I wanted you to have a good time with a guy?" Renee said petulantly, lighting her Salem with her pink plastic lighter.

"No," I retorted hatefully, "because you think a 'good time' is going to solve anything. Because your idea of a good time is for me to have a one-night-stand with a perfect stranger. In your _guestroom._ Maybe that's what you would have done at my age, but it's not me. I'm not a broken Renee Junior. I'm _different._ I don't need you to fix me. Can't you just accept that I have my own way of having fun, and it doesn't have to involve casual sex?"

"Don't act like you're so much better than everyone else, Isabella," my mother mumbled around her cigarette. The scent of menthol smoke wafted toward me in spite of her efforts to exhale out the window. "And don't go spouting ultra-feminist, separatist bullshit about how nobody needs a man for anything. Women didn't get here all by ourselves. We do need men, and you're no exception."

"Mom, I'm not arguing the futility of the existence of the male gender or the impossibility of heterosexual relationships," I moaned, trying to head off the familiar anti-Marilyn Frye rant she'd often spouted once I turned fourteen and started criticizing her dating habits and commitment issues. "I'm just trying to be an independent person, someone you can be proud of, someone _I_ can be proud of. I'm trying to reach the goals I set for _myself_. At this point, a man would just get in the way. Is that really so hard to understand?"

Renee took a long drag. "So, just to be clear, you're over That Boy, right?"

Oh hell. I successfully avoided this topic for as long as I could manage, but clearly she hadn't forgotten. "For fuck's sake," I scoffed, standing up and pacing the room. "Here we go again. I thought we were finally talking about my real life in the present day. I don't understand why every conversation has to lead back to the boyfriend I had when I was in high school. Three years, you've been harping on this. You'd think he broke up with _you._ Enough already!" I managed to sound quite convincing, actually, as if I didn't think about this very subject every time I got really drunk.

"He _changed_ you, Bella," my mother argued, not realizing the true irony of her statement. "You were happy and content with life, and then he walked out on you, and you became a different person." Naturally, my mother didn't understand the difference between being content and being happy. This reminded me of Charlie, content with his lot in life but never a happy man.

"You walked out on Dad for no good reason," I said coldly. "You think that didn't do any damage to him?"

She said nothing, just stared at me, her mouth slightly agape.

"You destroyed my father because you were _bored,_ and you never even thought about it," I accused, "did you?"

"Yes," she countered quietly, "I did. Eventually. But Bella, it's not my fault he if he didn't try to form a relationship with anyone else. We were so young—"

"Don't make excuses. You knew he loved you—you've always known. You were plenty old enough to consider the consequences," I growled. "And you weren't much younger than I am now."

"Yes, I know," Renee huffed. The smoke drifted out her mouth and nose as she spoke. God, I hated the smell of menthols. "That's part of my point. You're young enough to start over fresh with someone new. I don't want you to spend the rest of your life pining for That Boy like your dad did for me. You don't have to be this bitter old woman in a young girl's body. Is it so terrible that I want you to move on with your life?"

"No, Mom," I sighed, silently acknowledging her concern to myself, at least. "Moving on is not terrible, nor is having a little fun. The part I have a problem with is that you and Dad both have this idea that I'm not moving on or having a good time unless I'm fucking someone! 'Are you seeing anyone? Are you seeing anyone?' That's all I ever hear from you two. I understand why Dad does it—he's clearly the product of generations in a tiny town where everyone is the reflection of their spouse," I waved my hand at her, "or lack thereof. But you? You and I lived on our own for sixteen _years_. Obviously I watched you date guys and eventually get married, but I don't understand why you of all people think that's the surest sign of a full life."

Renee's cigarette was half gone, and she did not look at me as she blew her smoke out the window and spoke. "My parents may have been hippies, but they were from a small town, too. They were hippies who got married, had a baby, and realized that those fifties-era social standards actually had a basis in reality: somebody had to work, and somebody had to stay home and actually raise the child. Pop knew how to work on cars, and before she got pregnant your Gran was more about peace, love, and marijuana than any of the intellectual issues of the day. She didn't have a college education, and by the time she realized she needed one if she wanted to make more than a buck-thirty an hour at the dog food factory, she already had me. She was stuck."

I shook my head, unable to follow her Renee-logic. "Mom, I don't understand. If you know all this, shouldn't you be encouraging me to put my degree first?"

"No, you really don't understand," Renee answered quietly. "I'm not _dis_couraging you from pursuing your education. I'm trying to tell you that it's okay to have the best of both worlds. If you spend your whole life fixated on only one part of living, you'll find yourself in another rut when something happens to it, just like last time. Independence, education, and career should be balanced with personal fulfillment."

"Are you fucking serious?" I demanded. "Who are _you_ to judge whether or not I'm fulfilled?"

"I'm not blind, Bella," she shook her head, "and I know you a hell of a lot better than you think. You, my dear, are a born workaholic, and that's not a balanced life."

"No, no, no," I countered, eyes narrowed. "Don't stand there and lecture _me_ about balance. You were so busy 'fulfilling' yourself that you forgot to wash the dishes and pay the light bill and stock up on tampons and make sure my vaccines were up to date. Those things still needed to get done while you were at pottery class or Girls Night or on a date, and the only one left to do the mundane shit was me. I _became_ a workaholic out of self-preservation."

Renee's cigarette was much smaller now, but still burning its tiny red light as she inhaled. "I suppose that's true."

"I'd like to add," I said through gritted teeth, because I didn't want anyone to hear me yell, "that telling Neighbor Boy out there that I came to Florida to have sex with a random stranger is not acceptable maternal behavior no matter which era you were born in. Nor is anyone's penis going to provide me with anything that even remotely resembles 'personal fulfillment.' There's no need to whore me out. If I'm in the mood, I have hand-held equipment for that."

I had the satisfaction of seeing Renee's eyes widen in shock.

"I never said I was living like a nun." I took a deep swallow of my drink, finishing it off. "Like you said, Mother, it's just sex. But once you bring another person and their feelings into the mix, it becomes more. I refuse to use anyone or let myself be used for selfish gratification. I may not be a religious person, but I do have ethics."

Renee reached through the window, lowering her arm toward the root of the azalea hedge, and pulled up an ashtray. "I guess you're right," she sighed, stubbing out the remnant of her cigarette. "But someday your 'equipment' won't be enough anymore. Batteries are no substitute for a warm body."

And then the voice came.

_I know love and lust don't always keep the same company…_

"If that day comes," I replied softly, glad nobody could see me wince, "I would rather it mean more to me than whatever you thought was going to happen tonight."

Cowed, Renee hid her ashtray and came to me for a quick hug. "I'm sorry, sweetie. I guess I didn't really think this through."

"You never do, Mom." I hugged her back. "You rush in head first and think about the consequences later. I know Phil likes that about you and calls it 'adventurous.' It's fine if the only person affected by it is you, but you can't just do that with people's lives_._ It's hurtful and it's not right."

"I know, baby," Renee mumbled, sounding chastised.

"If you know, you should act like it," I chided her gently, even as I patted her back like a child. How I always wound up being the one to console her in these scenarios, I'd never figure out. Damn it, I needed to stop coming to Florida. "I'm going to bed now." I pretended to yawn for effect.

"Okay, baby," she smiled, pulling away and turning for the door. "Good night."

I followed her to the bedroom door, intent on locking myself in should Neighbor Boy get any ideas. "Good night, Mom."

"I love you," she said expectantly, looking over her shoulder at me.

I knew what she wanted me to say, but I only nodded and closed the door, pressing the button lock and, after a moment's thought, propping the desk chair under the doorknob. I'd probably regret not making a trip to the guest bathroom for a bedtime glass of water when I woke up with a fierce hangover, but I would willingly deal with that just to avoid contact with any more friends Renee may have 'spoken to' about me. Instead, I put my mother's cigarettes and lighter away for her.

Decembers in Jacksonville were surprisingly cold, something like April in Vancouver, so I slid out of my jeans to make the most of the chill. The bed was cool and welcoming against my skin, with the night air blowing in through the windows and chasing Renee's smoke away. I thought about Neighbor Boy, and about being wanted. Surely it wasn't such an awful thing, having someone want me, was it? Maybe not that young idiot out there, but someone who cared about me as a person. With a deep breath and droopy eyes, I considered my reality. I was too driven academically to bother with frat boys, none of Shalice's friends or my classmates really understood my outside interests or the accompanying attitude, and I wasn't romantically interested in the middle-aged men at the Chatterbox. What I told Renee was true: I was too busy with my own life to put energy into a man anyway.

Much, much too busy for a man. Whether I was wanted or not.

_I may not be human, but I am a man._

Liar. If you wanted me, you'd be here.

I closed my eyes and rolled over, settling into bed and forcing myself to dream of Haida legends, the auditory differential between a Sportster and a FatBoy, anything I could call up rather than His face. Men in canoes glided past, their tattoos winking at me. Women turned into birds and flocked around me and into the sky. Animals became spirits, spirits became men, men became animals. _Chii'aḵaatl'lx̱a_ crept on the shore, casting their eyes about the land as _x̱uuya_ cawed a warning. Something stalked me in the empty forest, and I slipped away silently, sprouting black wings and flying up into a tree, listening as the nameless, invisible thing prowled the forest floor.

_Bella,_ a watery voice said beside me,_ what are you doing?_

Shh. _Stl'aay taad dang kil guudang gas ga._

_Bella?_

The cold hand monster will hear your voice.

* * *

PEPET̸IN: (SENĆOŦEN Salish) skunk

_Cabrón: _(Spanish) literally "big goat;" colloquial definition varies by country and situation, but in this case it means "prick" or "motherfucker"

_k__̱__'aay ts'aawaay k'aayhlg__̱__ahl da gan—taay hla._ (Haida) The Stars have turned over—go to bed.

_Litost:_ (Czech) A state of torment created by the sudden sight of one's own misery (defined by Milan Kundera)

_Sg̱aana g̱id ids iijii anag̱uun_. (Haida) The Supernatural Being is watching out of curiosity.

_Chii'aḵaatl'lx̱a:_ (Haida) all Supernatural beings that come out of the ocean and change into humans

_x̱uuya: _(Haida) Raven, the trickster; a sly, selfish character, but ultimately his acts benefit others

_Stl'aay taad dang kil guudang gas ga._ (Haida) The cold hand monster will hear your voice.

A/N: Wondering about all the native languages? Please visit firstvoices (dot) com/en/SENCOTEN and firstvoices (dot) com/en/Hlgaadilda-Xaayda-Kil

_**Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. All recognizable characters and song lyrics are the property of their respective copyright owners. Portions of Stephenie Meyer's original work are reprinted, but no copyright violation is intended. References to real places and groups are used fictitiously, and certain elements of history are ignored. This story is in no way meant to reflect actual criminal events or territorial claims of gangs or motorcycle clubs in Vancouver or any other location.**_


	5. 5 2009

**My apologies for the delay. For some reason I wasn't able to upload onto Document Manager until late this morning.**

February 2009

Hamber House

UBC

_I let him pull me into the night-darkened backseat of his new Camaro in the parking lot, tugging shirts over our heads and kissing furiously with tongueless mouths as his cool hands explored my cream flesh. Fumbling with his belt buckle, I shoved his trousers and boxers down with my feet while he hiked my skirt up and shredded my underwear away, sliding into me with his stiff, cold—_

"Goddamn it," I hissed, pressing the 'off' button and settling down restlessly in my bed. "Damn it to hell, this is _not_ happening."

Batteries.

Finally Shalice went away for the midterm break with her boyfriend. Finally I had the room to myself, didn't have to worry about anyone barging in, didn't have to be quiet or stay under a blanket just in case, didn't have to explain why I was wearing a men's white dress shirt or where it came from, didn't have to hide anything from anyone. And I couldn't get off like I needed to because of the goddamned _dead batteries._ I couldn't go out and just buy more, either, because I'd kicked off the day with my old friend Jack Daniels. Shit. Shit. _Shit._

I forced a heavy breath past my lips, blowing a few strands of hair out of my eyes, and turned my head to the side, looking at the posters on my wall. There was a Monet—_Venice at Twilight_—as well as a collage of photos I'd taken on my trips to different reservations and reserves in the US and Canada, and an Ansel Adams shot of Canyon de Chelly in Arizona, in memory of the best vacation Renee and I ever took, when we toured six different reservations in Arizona and New Mexico. And of course there was my favorite poster: a 1986 Harley Davidson Heritage Softail. The combination of curves and angles gave it a sex-on-wheels appeal, but it was the vintage-style fender that sealed the deal for me.

"Someday," I whispered to the last poster.

I really was going to have to talk to Shalice about moving into different accommodations with me. These little shoebox dorms were cheaper, but I was sick of living this way, in too-close quarters, apologizing every time I woke her up because I moaned too loud during an erotic dream, having to share a public bathroom with every other girl on our floor, forced to spend time in the library or the downstairs lounge whenever Shalice wanted to get laid. I turned onto my side, snuggled up in the blanket Dad sent me for Christmas, and reached between my mattress and frame for the TV and DVD remotes, wondering what movie Shalice left in the DVD player this time.

"The remotes…"

I turned over both remote controls and flipped open their battery compartments. Four double-A batteries stared up at me.

With a triumphant grin, I reached up to the windowsill for my drink and swallowed a little more Jack and Coke. I looked at my glass thoughtfully and pulled out an ice cube. After an unnecessary look around I pressed the ice cube against my neck, letting it slide along the contours of my throat, skimming it over my breast. It was a little too wet and hardly pliable, but it _could_ be His tongue.

"Yeah, right," I slurred to myself.

At this moment, I despised my mother. Not for any deficit of parenting in my childhood or for anything she ever said about Him, but because she was right about _this_ not being enough. It was as if she cursed me with dissatisfaction. I could lie here attempting to pleasure myself for hours—in fact, I probably would—and no matter how many times my body reached climax, it wouldn't fulfill me. The need I felt now had nothing to do with sex. Simply put, I needed to be touched.

"_Maybe this sleepover wasn't such a good idea," Edward said quietly as I met him upstairs in his room. When I nearly bumped into his dresser, he seemed to remember my visual limitations and turned on a nearby lamp, flooding the room in soft gold light. "I don't feel right lying to your father about my whereabouts."_

_I folded my arms and plopped down on his leather sofa. The only reason Charlie agreed to let me spend the night was because Edward was officially 'camping' with Jasper and their parents after the Fourth of July Picnic while Alice and I stayed at her house for 'girl time.' Edward and I had both been looking forward to this evening for so long, waiting for Charlie to get completely comfortable with my relationship with the Cullens before we attempted to move our regular clandestine nighttime visit to the mansion. _

"_Like coming into my room every night after he's gone to bed isn't already doing exactly that?" I pointed out logically. He had no qualms about climbing through my window, especially not now that he had both my permission and my active participation. This sudden attack of conscience made no sense. "It's okay for you to sneak into my bedroom, but not for me to sneak into yours?"_

"_That's different," Edward insisted, perfectly immobile, perfectly beautiful._

"_Why," I demanded, "because you tell yourself it's his fault he doesn't know what's going on under his own roof, or because I'm the one lying to his face every morning instead of you?"_

_Edward groaned, sounding almost peeved with me. "Because it just is."_

"_You're so full of crap," I snapped at him impatiently. "Finally we get a night to ourselves, in a place where we don't have to be quiet, and you ruin it for no good reason."_

"_I didn't intend to ruin anything, but I do have a good reason," he explained, the authority slowly fading from his face, if not his voice._

_I met his pyrite eyes expectantly—clearly he'd satiated his thirst on his day-long hunt yesterday, so that wasn't the issue. "I'm listening."_

"_I just think…" he began, running his hand through his hair in that sexy-awkward way of his. "I'm afraid I gave you the wrong impression about what it is we're doing here."_

"_Arguing?" I commented, eyebrow arched._

"_Physical intimacy," he clarified, looking down at his shoes._

_Edward hadn't even touched me yet, and he was already implying a desire to send me home. "I think you're painting a clear picture that no such thing will be happening tonight." With a sigh, I stood up and grabbed my overnight bag, stumbling just a little as I walked out of his gilded room._

"_Where are you going?" he asked, at my side instantly and trying to take my bag. I thought I heard the sound of his car keys jingling in his pocket._

"_Downstairs with Alice, if she hasn't left yet," I replied, clutching my duffel strap tighter and not looking at him. "I told my dad I was coming here for a girls' night, didn't I? I'm going to do Alice's hair."_

"_What hair?" He sounded almost playful, as if that would lessen the disappointment._

"_Hey!" Alice shouted indignantly from the living room._

"_Then she can do my hair," I sniped. Now was _not _the time for him to joke around with me. "You know what I mean."_

"_Bella," he stopped me with a heavy hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry, but we can't."_

"_Don't you think I _know_ that?" I hissed, wishing I had the inner strength to make myself shrug his hand away. "I wasn't suggesting we try. If all we do is kiss once and hold each other all night, I'm okay with that. I just want to spend the night with my own boyfriend without worrying about my father walking in on us. What's wrong with that?"_

"_It won't stop there." I hated how controlled he sounded when I was so irritated and crushed. "You always have to push for more, and you have no idea how it frustrates me."_

"_You don't have a monopoly on frustration," I informed him. Despite his assumptions, knowing Charlie was asleep down the hall didn't make it easier for me not to feel aroused in Edward's presence. "I just look at you and I get worked up, but I know I can't have you, and I know why. You think I don't know how much harder this is for you, with the heightened emotions and the blood cravings?"_

"_No," he said firmly. "I don't."_

"_Then tell me," I whispered. Carefully, so as not to fall, I turned on the steps and lifted my face to his. "Quit using my dad as a built-in babysitter. If you think I don't understand, why don't you just _tell me_?"_

_He released my duffle strap. "Because it won't do any good."_

_Talking to me about our love life, or why we couldn't have one, wouldn't do any good?_

"_Alice?" I called down the stairs. I knew she'd hear me, no matter how hoarse and small my voice. I had about ten seconds before my tear ducts got the better of me, and I just wanted out of here while I still had a little dignity._

"_I didn't mean it that way," Edward backpedaled, beginning to look worried now, maybe remorseful. "I just meant you don't have a frame of reference to comprehend it."_

_I inhaled sharply, desperate to stay in control of myself. Not only was I too forward, I was apparently too childish and ignorant for him to communicate with me effectively. I looked off to the side at an oil painting on the wall, not really seeing the swirls and brushstrokes._

"_I'll get Carlisle's keys," Alice called out. The sadness in her voice was laced with something else—maybe annoyance, maybe the beginning of righteous indignation._

"_You don't have to leave," Edward said hastily. "Stay here. Have fun with Alice."_

"_I think you've effectively exsanguinated the fun from the evening, brother." Alice sounded harsh, cold. I felt her tiny hand in mine half a moment later. "Why don't you just go destroy something else, like a defenseless fawn or a litter of puppies?"_

"_Mind your own damn business," Edward half-growled at her. "You're always meddling, and half the time it just makes everything worse."_

"_I'm not the reason she's crying!" Alice shouted back, gesturing at my face. "That's all you!"_

"_Just stop, both of you," I ordered wearily, wondering how I went from planning a quiet, romantic evening in my boyfriend's arms to _this_._

_A moment of fierce, golden-eyed glares passed between the two vampires, and Alice let go of my hand and liberated my bag from my shoulder. "I'll be in the Mercedes, Bella."_

_I waited until I heard the door shut. "You know what kills me, Edward?"_

"_What's that?" he asked, gentle now as he really took in the sight of me._

"_We could have that level of intimacy," I murmured. "Not for one night, not for fifty years, but forever. You just won't let us have it. You won't even discuss it."_

"_Sex isn't a valid reason to steal your soul," he countered, beginning to look tired as he heard the opening of a familiar argument._

"_Nothing ever is." I turned away from him and cautiously descended the curving staircase, keeping my hand on the banister as my tears blurred my sight. "Not even my feelings." Not even every single bit of my love. _Wake up, Bella.

_I got all the way to the front door before I felt his cool arms close around me—the unwitting predatory movement made me jump. "Oh Bella, I'm so sorry." Kisses like snowflakes fell on my hair. "Stay. Please."_

_Nearly defeated, I only had enough fight left in me to murmur one hushed, calculated question: "What for?"_

_Edward sighed quietly; I didn't hear it, but I felt the deliberate rise and fall of his chest. "For this." He turned me toward him, his heady scent all around me like a fog, and painstakingly pressed his lips to mine._

_I let him._

_Fingers crept into my hair like spiders as I let him guide me to the couch. His body hovered over mine, and I kept still, allowing him to skim his nose over every inch of exposed skin, gasping out his name and reveling in his caress as he reassured me over and over that he loved me, until I forgot what it was I wanted to talk about._

I slipped the ice cube, still infused with the taste of my drink, into my mouth. Ignoring the salt tears slowly forming at the corners of my eyes, I positioned the device, quietly pressed the power button, and pretended I didn't want to call His name.

* * *

May 2009

Banana Leaf

Vancouver, BC

"So," Shalice prodded me, swallowing a mouthful of roti canai, "how'd it go last night?"

We were at my favorite place for Malaysian and Indonesian food, celebrating the completion of our final exams with a seven-course tasting menu for two. Her question, however, was not related to academia.

"It was just dinner and a movie," I replied, inhaling the scent of chicken satay before I dipped the skewer into the spiced peanut dip and took a bite. "Not a big deal."

"Bella, come on," Shalice insisted, sipping at her wine. "You haven't been on a real date in forever. And you asked _him_ out. This is epic."

"Yeah," I mumbled, swallowing my chicken quickly, "somebody check the thermostat in hell."

I finally broke down and invited a guy from school out on an actual date. Charlie was to blame, really, or rather he was my inspiration. He called me one day, nervous and excited, saying he had a date with Sue Clearwater, a _real_ date, Port Townsend had nicer restaurants than Port Angeles didn't it, how awful would it be to drive her around in the police cruiser, and what did I think he should wear? If my father could overcome a dry spell that spanned almost my entire _life,_ then I could force myself out of my comfort zone, too.

For months after that call I toyed with the idea of asking someone out, someone nice. Sameer was a forensic anthropology major, originally from Britain, and he'd always been friendly toward me. Then again, he was friendly toward everyone, and while I didn't detect any particular interest in me, he seemed like a safe bet for a yes. I should have known extending the invitation was actually the easy part.

"We went to see that Beyoncé movie, _Obsessed._" I wrinkled my nose a little. "Not really my kind of film, but _Star Trek_ isn't out yet, and they weren't showing anything either of us were too interested in. But, whatever, I watched it."

_Obsessed_ was completely the wrong movie for me to watch. I wasn't ready to confront that much overt sexuality on screen with a date sitting next to me. It _definitely_ wasn't a good idea to see a film about a woman who forces her sexual advances on someone who doesn't want her, then gets _killed_ for it at the end. It made me feel awkward and inadequate and just…defective. Not my usual outwardly confident self. I knew we should have gone to the theater with the Bollywood movies—I would have gladly tried it out if Sameer suggested it.

"We went to Six Acres afterward," I continued. "You know, that tapas bar your boyfriend told me about? We talked for a while, ate some weird chicken wings with hoisin on them, and then I went home."

"That's it?" Shalice was making the strangest face at me. "That's all you've got to say? Your first date in six months—"

"A year," I corrected her quietly, looking down at my papaya and pineapple salad.

"First date in a freaking _year_," she went on, louder than I would have liked, "and that's all you have to say about it?"

"Would you please keep your voice down?" I asked her, feeling a blush trickle up my neck and toward my face. "What do you want me to say? That's all that happened."

"Did you get along?" she tried, launching into girl-hyper-speed. "Did he make eyes at you? Was there chemistry? Was there cuddling? Do you think you'll go out with him again?"

"Slow down before you choke on your spring roll," I laughed. "We got on fine. Nobody made eyes, and nobody cuddled—we didn't even hold hands. Like I said, dinner and a movie. That's all."

"Oh god," Shalice groaned. "Where did _this_ one go wrong?"

Grabbing the last bit of roti bread from the banana leaf it was plated on, I tried to reassure her before she got carried away. "He didn't do anything wrong."

The problem was me. After years of presenting my schoolmates with a frontstage façade, I didn't know how to just be myself around them. It didn't help that I was dressed in something a little on the frilly side instead of my regular casual clothing, and I was trying not to talk about school too much, lest the evening devolve into a study session. Sameer made a point of asking me about other topics, like books (Vonnegut was my current favorite), what I had planned for the summer, what it was like working in a biker bar, and where I grew up. I didn't make rookie mistakes, like going on about my previous relationship or oversharing about private things. I asked him about his family and his childhood in London, and he told me how life as a British Indian was something like what black people in America had to deal with. We had a good conversation, I didn't feel any urgent need to bail on him, and we didn't _not_ get along. It was just…

"It didn't feel like a real date," I confessed. "It was like being with anybody else. We're just friends."

"No sparks?"

"Nope," I shook my head, wiping my mouth with a napkin.

"Well, that sucks," Shalice declared, obviously disappointed. "I was really hoping this would work out."

"You're as bad as Renee," I laughed, pushing my salad plate away from me and drinking my tea. My mother was absolutely beside herself when I told her I made plans with someone; she showered me with enough enthusiasm for an entire cheerleading squad. I couldn't remember the last time we had such a pleasant conversation. Of course she was unhappy that the date didn't come to anything (yes, I called her the minute I got home, because I knew she'd be awake wondering about it), but that didn't stop her from congratulating me.

"Let's not make a big thing out of this," I advised Shalice, lest I suffer anymore Renee-like excitement. "It's not like I was pinning all my future happiness on this one evening. It was just another night like any of the others."

That wasn't entirely true. Last night was the first date I'd actually looked forward to in so very long, which was certainly a departure from the norm. I wasn't looking to make a life with the guy; I just wanted to know if I could feel…something…about anyone else. It wasn't a huge deal that it didn't pan out spectacularly, but I did come away disheartened.

"You didn't find him attractive?" Shalice wondered.

"No…I mean I did, but it wasn't that." If anything, he got bonus points for not fitting in with my mother's idea of 'cute.' He had _black_ eyes—always black, never transitioning to red or gold. Once that stopped being disturbing, it became part of the appeal. "Sameer is a good-looking guy. He's just not for me."

"At least you're putting yourself out there, eh?" Shalice sighed. "Think you'll try again soon?"

"Considering how long it took me to find anyone even remotely acceptable," I replied dismissively, "I'd say no, probably not. Semester's over anyway, and half the UBC population is gone for the summer."

"Excuses, excuses," Shalice sang, waving her wine glass a little. "Next you'll be telling me the sun was in your eye."

"Ready for the next course?" our waitress asked, appearing like magic to rescue me from the conversation.

"_Ya, terima kasih,_" I thanked her sincerely.

She gave me a knowing look as she cleared space on the table for the beef rendang. "_Sama-sama._"

I changed the subject after that, and thankfully Shalice didn't reprise it, but our discussion stuck in my mind for a little while. Sameer was funny, intelligent, well-mannered, with interesting stories, a plan for his life, and career ambitions similar to my own. He had a job and was clever and self-reliant. Even my dad would approve of him—Charlie was a total sucker for the British accent. On paper, Sameer was probably right for me.

He just wasn't Edward.

* * *

July 2009

The Chatterbox

Vancouver, BC

"How's the guided touring thing going this year?" Brown asked me as he filled a glass with cheap beer from the tap.

"Oh, not bad," I told him, reaching into the cooler. "It's so much easier this summer than it was last year, now that all the museum's renovations are done. We've got an exhibit right now on Samoan tattooing, and it's beautiful, but damn it if it doesn't look painful as hell! Do you know they tap a shark tooth into your skin with a stick, and sometimes a whole comb made of teeth to fill in the solid black? And I don't mean a tiny tat, either. We're talking half your back, your thighs, and both ass cheeks are covered in ink."

"Jesus shit on toast!" Brown exclaimed, fingering the fading dragon tattoo on his forearm. Brown had been getting his tats from Chuck over at Sacred Heart for years, and I'd gone to the same guy for mine at his recommendation. "I'll take an electric needle any day."

"Same here." I loaded my tray with two glasses of ice, two cans of Rainier beer, and a bag of chips. "Hey, you might want to cut off the rubs sitting by the jukebox before they try to order another round. They've been here a while, and they're getting a little too loud and stupid. The other customers are starting to get annoyed." Loud was one thing, stupid another. But the combination of the two didn't bode well, especially after eight beers each.

"I'm watching 'em," Brown assured me before I crossed the room to Lorraine's table.

"Here you go, LowRent. Ten dollars," I smiled, sitting the chips, glasses, and beers down in front of her and her old man. She wasn't the only one with a strange nickname, but hers was definitely the funniest. "You and Rusty going to the Boogie Bash in Rock Creek next weekend?"

"Nah, we're going to Sturgis the week after." She nodded at Rusty, a quiet, scruffy man who worked in a factory. He'd never given me a bit of trouble, and at her nod, he reached into his wallet and slid me ten dollars for the order and another ten for my tip. "How 'bout you, honey?"

"Thanks, Rusty," I grinned. In the language of bar service, a large tip early in the customer's visit translated to _stay attentive and there will be more tips later_. To Lorraine, I said, "Can't go. No bike, my car needs a new fuel filter, and I've probably got work up at the school. You two need anything else?"

The night was going well for the most part. I didn't worry so much about getting grief from the regulars. After three years of my coming here, we all knew each other, and occasionally we drank together on my evenings off, unless I felt a need to retreat to my corner table. We had a certain amount of mutual respect—they didn't talk down to me for being an inexperienced kid, and I didn't talk down to them for being uneducated, because neither of those things were true, and we all had sense enough to realize it. Plus, they knew by now that I was a cop's daughter, and that generally made people leery of fucking with me, even if he wasn't a cop in this country.

The tourists, however, did not know this, and some of them were a little too hands-on with me, regardless of my plain face. It made no difference to them if I wore loose shirts to hide my shape or tank tops, but at least with bare shoulders I got better tips. In the interest of keeping things peaceful, I learned early on to dodge out of the way when I could and ignore unwanted touches when I couldn't, unless their hands lingered on my ass for longer than three seconds or strayed anywhere else on my body. Once they crossed that line, I invoked my right to refuse to serve them, whether they paid me or not, and the method of refusal was left to my discretion. Mostly I just told them to fuck off, said the owner was my dad, or claimed the biggest guy in the bar was my old man. It was always the handsome ones who felt free to feel me up. Like they earned it by virtue of their chiseled jaws. Tonight, it was the assholes in front of the jukebox.

"Hey, baby," one mumbled, trying to hand me some pocket change. "Why don't you pick a song?"

I looked at him for a full five seconds before silently holding out my hand for the coins. A few seconds later the chords of a blues song called "My Last Goodbye" blared across the room. I hoped this guy would take the song title as a hint, but the lyrics were sad and too real to me, and my eyes slid to my table in the corner, currently occupied by Black Joe and his old lady, Tammy.

The Chatterbox was not owned by or affiliated with a particular motorcycle gang or club, but we did cater to them when they showed up. Black Joe, so-named because of his monstrous black beard, was a Bandido who'd come here from Ontario to find work; he had a bizarre sense of humor, which was fun to listen to, but he was physically intimidating and temperamental and it wasn't wise to piss him off. _Kind of like a less-nice version of Emmett,_ I realized with an unexpected pang at my heart.

"_Time was just a fist of change, tossed in the water just in case…you ever came around."_

"Oh, hey," the tourist perked up. "I love this song. Why don't you dance with me, baby?"

"Sorry, buddy," I said, clearing trash from their table. "I'm on the clock." A glance at Brown told me what I needed to know. "The boss says you boys have had enough. Time to settle your tab. I'll be right back with your ticket." One guy hung on to the nearly empty beer he was still nursing while I slid up to the bar with my tray.

Brown handed me the slip of paper, his eyes meeting mine with a quiet question. "You need me to get this for you?"

I looked back at the two men. Big guys—they obviously spent a good deal of time working out. However, they weren't wearing vests proclaiming them to be members of any particular club, nor did they have Bandido or Hells Angels tattoos, and their hands were cleaner than most of my customers. Beyond that, you could tell a lot about someone by their bike. These two shitheads rode in on the latest model touring bikes, fully loaded with every possible accessory, easily having paid fifty grand each. They were 'rubs'—Rich Urban Bikers—here on vacation from their corporate jobs. I used to _make out_ with something scarier than these two. So I took the receipt from Brown, shaking my head slightly as I took my pen and amended the total. _I can handle it._

When their tab was paid and my twenty-five-dollar tip was securely in my pocket, Asshole #1 tried asking me to dance again. "Come on, baby. Just one little dance. Please?"

I knew I wouldn't get in trouble for it—he wasn't the first to ask, and Brown and I had discussed this before. But I already had enough of this _chijii xaajuu_ jackass pawing at me. "Sorry. Full house tonight, and I've got a lot of tables to cover. You boys have a nice night." I took the last bottle and started to turn away, heading to the safety of the space behind the bar. Nobody ever crossed that line.

"Wait," the asshole said, grabbing my wrist. Hard. "I'll pay you."

I froze.

"That's more like it, sugar," he drawled, tugging me toward him a little. I'd probably have a bruise on that wrist in the morning. "Five bucks, one dance."

I turned quickly and glared. "I'm a waitress. Not a five-dollar whore."

"Relax," he drawled amiably, loosening his hold a little, "we do it in Dallas all the time. It's called a dollar dance. It's no big deal."

Across from him, his friend nodded, as if to confirm that there were such things as dollar dances, but the bar had gone quiet but for the music, and he looked nervous. Black Joe pressed his hand onto his tabletop, about to stand up. _Shit._ All we needed was a fucking brawl.

"It's no big deal," the first customer repeated insistently.

I met his eyes fiercely. I'd faced red-eyed devils head on—this hazel-eyed human was nothing. All I had to do was change my expression to something more demonic and not blink. With a quick swivel of my wrist I got out of his grasp and put him in a thumb hold Charlie had shown me, forcing him to bend awkwardly to one side, exposing his throat. I didn't need to smash the empty bottle in my hand to use as a knife yet, but I raised it in the air, ready to bludgeon him if he tried to touch me again. "This isn't Texas, bitch. Get. The fuck. Out."

I heard a chair scrape and felt a strong presence looming behind me, and I knew Brown or one of the regulars stood there with his fists clenched or brandishing the baseball bat we kept near the register. He didn't have to say anything. The asshole glanced over my shoulder, his expression changing to fright. I released his thumb, and he slid out of his seat and backed away, following his friend as quickly as possible out of my line of sight, toward the exit. Without turning around, I said, "Thanks."

There was a whisper of air behind me and the sound of the door and the jukebox as the two idiots left. I wiped the vacated table and cleaned another without looking back, listening for the tell-tale rumble of engines as I calculated how long I could reasonably wait before disappearing to the back room to ice down my wrist. Some people would grumble about that shit for a while and then find something else to talk about. If I ranted or raved or rubbed tellingly at the red marks on my arm, a few customers just _might_ respond accordingly and follow my would-be dance partner out to the parking lot—any excuse for a fight. Then there'd be cops and awkward questions and arrests. Somebody might be guilty of parole violation, and I couldn't have that, not over something as stupid as this. So I had to just push it aside to be dealt with later. Compartmentalize. That's just how it was, and it came naturally to me after years of practice. There were two hours left before last call, and I had work to do.

Just before closing, one of our regulars approached me almost shyly as I cleared a few shot glasses away. Ben, the man who pulled me out from under the pool table after my first bar fight. I'd learned a lot more about him since then. A decent, no-bullshit, stand-up guy from a Coast Salish tribe on Vancouver Island, he stood at a respectable five-foot-ten and looked down at me with kind, dark eyes. "Miss Bella," he asked, "would you like to dance?"

I smiled. Ben was a good ten years older than me, divorced, with one kid. His parents had died three years prior, but he said they taught him to believe in reincarnation in keeping with tribal custom, so he just assumed he'd see them again someday in someone else's eyes. He'd gone to his band's public school, so he actually knew SENĆOŦEN. Sometimes I wouldn't see him for a few weeks at a time, depending on where his boss's construction contracts sent him. His was the '81 Harley Wide Glide parked out front, with a black and red flame job on the fuel tank and custom ape-hanger handlebars. He once confessed that nearly every penny that wasn't used to support his child or fix up his house went into that bike. I didn't say so, but that made me a little sad for him. Ben always paced himself when he drank here, partly to stretch his budget, but also because he knew his tolerance for alcohol was not very high. Tonight he had just a little more than usual, not enough that he couldn't walk straight, but enough to give him the courage to ask me that question. I wondered if it was Ben who stood behind me earlier, but I didn't want to embarrass him or myself by asking.

"Sure," I agreed, reaching into my pocket for coins and sighing as my favorite song strained through the air. I turned and placed my hands on his shoulders. "Watch out Ben, I'm not much of a dancer. Your feet will probably get stomped on."

Warm fingers held my waist, not with an oppressively firm grip, but not as though I was a delicate butterfly, either. His shoulders were alien under my palms, strong but soft and fleshy beneath his t-shirt, and he had a tattoo on his right arm that I recognized as a spirit bear. It occurred to me that, other than being helped into cabs or receiving hugs from my parents, this was the most affectionate physical contact I had with anyone in four long years.

It was remarkably pleasant.

"_If you lose your one and only, there's always room here for the lonely…"_

There wasn't much space for intricate, formal dancing, but he didn't strike me as the type for that anyway. I didn't actually step on him—nothing like waitressing to teach me not to drag my feet anymore—but I didn't have natural rhythm, either, and I'd never _really_ learned to dance. We simply stood and took slow steps in a circle, laughing and bumping awkwardly as I attempted to keep up with the two-step, peeking at each other's faces between glances around the room.

"You're a nice girl, Miss Bella."

"Thanks. You're not so bad yourself."

"_Watch your broken dreams dance in and out of the beams of a neon moon."_

"Would it be alright if I kissed you?" he whispered.

Inexplicably, I heard Him. _I was thinking there was something I wanted to try._

"No, Ben," I answered gently. "But thanks for asking."

Ben looked somewhere past the top of my head and swallowed. "Sorry."

"That's okay. Don't worry about it." The song ended, and I stepped back and smiled genuinely. "Closing time. I've got to clean up, and you need to head out. Are you sure you're okay to ride?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." He seemed to have recovered his composure quickly. "Listen: Z…Y…X…W…V…"

"Okay, okay, fine," I laughed. "Next time you order an extra beer, I'm giving you my dad's field sobriety test." Actually, now that I thought about it, I should probably invest in a pen light and start doing that to everybody.

"Good night, Bella," Ben called as he made his way to the door.

"Good night, Ben."

While Brown locked the door and started counting the till, I gathered the cleaning supplies and made short work of wiping down tables and chairs, sweeping the floors, cleaning the tiny washrooms—god, I hated that part. Alcohol did terrible things to a man's aim.

"How'd we do tonight, Brown?" I asked, helping him with the inventory in the back room.

"I raked it in," he chuckled. "You? Is that wrist feeling better?" He looked at it for me earlier, pissed off at the finger-shaped bruises but otherwise relieved that nothing was broken.

"Oh, I'm better than fine. Three _hundred_ dollars in tips tonight," I replied, still amazed, "most of it after those shit-stompers left. I must have been getting sympathy money."

"Sympathy might not even be the right word for it," Brown snorted, grabbing a few cartons of cigarettes to refill the machine. "Do you have this thing about you that triggers every man in a two mile radius to defend you or something? You weren't even panicking, but I swear every guy in the bar was eyeballing that fucker. One dude even came in from the street!"

"You lie," I teased, following him into the main room so I could do my final sterilization of the beer supply pipe.

"I shit you not," he assured me. "Guy whipped in here and stared those two down. They took off, and then he did, too. I was all set to give him a free round. Can't blame him for not staying, though, if that was his first impression of the place."

I searched Brown's eyes; they were, funnily enough, jade green. "What'd he look like?"

He looked at me curiously before answering. "I couldn't tell because we keep it so dark. Tall guy, almost your age, jeans and a denim jacket. Clean shaven, and his hair was neat. I couldn't make out the color under the blue and orange neon, but I think it was brown. Nothing special."

"Hmm." The hair was wrong, as were the clothes, but surely He'd heard of combs, hair gel, and Wal-Mart by now. Guys like Brown didn't describe other men as attractive, certainly not _beautiful,_ so all I had could expect to get out of him were details. I looked at my feet as I took my apron off. "Pale skin?"

Brown shook his head at me. "Bella, you're in the Pacific Northwest. Find me someone who _isn't _pale."

I really was desperate, wasn't I? I heard 'tall, young, and pale,' and I was looking for it to be Him. Even after all these years. _Wake up, Bella._

"…you've been studying the Haida for years," Brown was saying, "but have you ever actually met any?"

"Of course I have. You know that." It was a strange fact: some Haida were as pasty-skinned as white men. "Grandma Swan used to tell me stories about their tribe when I was little. I think I remember her once telling me that's where I got my complexion from…" I looked over at the door, feeling off balance. The sensation of being stared at seemed to double in intensity, though I knew that had to be my imagination. No one else was here. Unless those guys from Texas came back…god, I needed a drink. Thankfully I had a bottle of Jack at home with my name on it.

"I have a surprise for you," Brown said after a quiet minute.

"Oh yeah," I answered distractedly, wondering if Brown would be willing to follow me home in case The Assholes were waiting for me to leave work, "what's that?"

His eyes crinkled slightly. "Marty and I are taking you with us to the Rock Creek rally."

"Really?" My eyes grew round as saucers—all my attention focused on this one, unbelievable thing. "But what about the bar?"

"We do this nearly every year, Bella. The only reason we didn't do it last summer was because I had that sinus infection. It's a four-day event, Friday through Monday, but we only go for two. We're closed on Sundays anyway, so we just stay closed on Monday while we're gone. I know you don't work the museum on those days, and if you can take those two days off at the dining hall and skip your Monday class, we'll pay for your entry fee…" It was odd, how hopeful he looked. Much the same way Charlie did when he told me that he bought me a rusting truck when I was seventeen.

"Are you sure you've got room for me?" I asked nervously. I had been secretly wishing to attend a biker rally for nearly three years, but I didn't want to put Brown and Marty in a tough spot, trying to fit me on their bikes as a passenger and find space to pack my gear along with their own.

"Oh, we're sure," he insisted. "You ride sissy with Marty on her bike, and we'll keep your extra stuff in our saddlebags. All you need is a bedroll, a small tent if you have one, your toothbrush, a change of clothes, and your warmest jacket. It's about a six hour ride. We're closing the bar early the night before so we can get a good start in the morning. Consider it your early birthday present."

It was like getting my dollhouse all over again, only better. Two days of good friends, kick-ass bikes, and a good time. All for me. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" I gave Brown a quick hug, clasped my hands together, and spun on the spot, brimming with something that felt like it might be happiness.

* * *

August 2009

Highway 3

Silver Creek, BC

"Marty, are you sure?"

She rolled her sky-blue eyes at me affectionately. "It's only thirty-five kilometers, Bella. I know you've been itching to do this since we got on the road, and you've been getting so good at this."

I looked at the highway and surrounding terrain nervously. "But we're in the mountains."

Another eye roll and a shake of her head. "You're in the valley between them. We're going to stop when we get to the sharp left curve, that way you don't have to worry about taking that turn."

"But if I screw up—"

"Will you two shut up and get on?" Brown groaned. "We're burning daylight."

Marty smirked, and I felt my grin slide across my face with my answer. "Alright, let's get the fuck out of here."

Under Marty's cautious tutelage, I'd practiced riding in the backstreets around her house, but I never got up to highway speeds before. God, no wonder Harley-Davidson tried to make the sound of their engine a registered trademark. I wanted a crankpin V-twin engine for my bedroom—I'd never need my silicone device again. The rumble between my thighs was like nothing, and I mean _nothing_, I'd ever felt in my life.

Once I really started gunning it, there was nothing else. No sounds but the engine, no restraints but my helmet, no sight but the vanishing road in front of me and the mountains—hills, really—covered in summer grasses and thick pine trees that blurred beautifully, the sun beating down on me, the cold wind seeping into my suede jacket and tugging at the braid in my hair. I barely even registered that I was carrying a passenger. For twenty-two minutes, I was flying. I was free.

I felt Marty tap me when we approached the designated stop, so I slowed and stopped on the shoulder, pulling my leg over the seat and letting Marty slide forward to take the throttle from me without shutting off the engine. As I climbed on the seat behind her and rested my back against the sissy bar, something shiny at the top of the steep hill caught my eye.

Straightening up immediately, I thumped Marty's shoulder to keep us in place as I tore off my sunglasses and looked up, scanning the ridge. "_What's wrong?_" Marty shouted, trying to make herself heard over the exhaust. Brown was stopped as well, and though I could feel their eyes on me, I didn't look away from where I'd seen the bright light. Like the sun hitting a diamond.

It wasn't there.

"Fuck," I whispered.

I shook my head and repositioned myself behind Marty, holding her waist the way she taught me. She and Brown exchanged glances, but we all had shades on to protect our eyes from the wind and helmet straps under our chins, so their expressions were difficult to distinguish. Not wanting anymore tricks of the light to set me on edge and ruin my trip, I sat quietly all the rest of the way to Rock Creek, keeping my eyes level with the ground and not looking up until we arrived at the Boogie Bash.

The biker games were straight up ridiculous but fun to watch once I had my first beer and felt myself relax again. One game seemed to be of Scottish origin, but rather than tossing stones, the men (and a couple of brawny women) tossed empty kegs. Another game consisted of nudging an empty keg—there sure were a lot of those—across a finish line using only the front tire of each competing bike. There was a bike show, contests for best pipes, best paint job, and yes, a wet t-shirt contest, which I declined to participate in despite a few whistles of encouragement (my tits apparently became impressive with age). There were cover bands showing off their classic rock and heavy metal guitar skills and a seemingly never-ending supply of barbecue and kegs. I saw a few knots of people passing joints back and forth and heard the sounds of couples fucking or snoring in their tents late into the night. Some riders didn't bother bringing tents, preferring to sleep under the stars in bed rolls or even perched across their bikes like cats that slept in trees, a skill that took practice. Several of my friends from the Chatterbox were there, and I laughed and drank with them, belting out country songs around a campfire and staring up at the blue-white crescent moon before wishing everyone a good night and drunkenly stumbling to my tent. From the sound of things, Brown and Marty were going at it next door, and I was distinctly happy that I brought a tent of my own.

Actually, it wasn't _my_ tent, nor was the sleeping bag mine. I was unsure, when I stole the camping equipment from that enormous abandoned garage, when or why I would even need it. It had never been used before, and I thought maybe I could sell it or make a gift of it to someone eventually or…hell, I didn't know why I was taking it. I just wanted it. It didn't matter that no one ever used it before. It still belonged to Him.

I was so tired from the day that I dropped off to sleep almost immediately. The images came then, stronger than any dream I'd had in months.

Swirling dresses and tuxedos, crepe paper hanging from the ceiling, old-fashioned dance steps mismatched to modern music. A pair of cold arms held me securely as my feet rested on top of shiny shoes covering stone-hard toes, while mortal and immortal faces blurred around me.

_I promised I wouldn't let go of you tonight…you're much more than beautiful…no matter how perfect the day is, it always has to end…_

Edward, please don't.

_I don't want my presence to take anything away from you…_

Your absence took something away from me, something I can't replace.

_And you're really that willing? …ready to give up everything._

You didn't leave me a choice. I had to give up all that I was to become all that I am. And it's still not enough. I'm not free of you. I don't think I ever will be.

We sat together on a bench outside the gym, admiring the darkening sky. The memory of cold lips fell against my throat, teasing me with the knowledge of venomous incisors and the prohibited eternity hiding behind them.

_Oh, my lovely Bella._

Edward, my beautiful Edward. Why do you do this to me?

_I love you, Bella._

You were my whole world, and you left me over a paper cut.

_I know._

You ruined everything.

_I'm sorry._

I don't know to let you go.

_Neither do I._

Then stay with me. For real, this time. You can't keep disappearing on me.

_Bella._ Dream-fingers traced the shape of my lips, the ghostly reminiscence of my favorite touch. _I'll stay with you in my own way. Isn't that enough?_

No, this is not enough anymore. Your way always ends the same. U HE,HO,I SEN SE—_I will be alone._

I don't _want_ to spend the rest of my life alone.

* * *

Sameer: Hindu name with multiple meanings, including "entertaining companion"

_Ya, terima kasih:_ (Malay) Yes, thank you

_Sama-sama: _You're welcome

Sturgis: A motorcycle rally that takes place annually in the Black Hills in Sturgis, South Dakota. One of the largest motorcycle events in the world.

Bandidos, aka Bandido Nation: Intentionally misspelled. A motorcycle club originally founded in Texas, now with chapters all over the world. Considered an Outlaw motorcycle club. Has a rivalry with the Hells Angels.

_Chijii xaajuu:_ (Haida) small penis

Sissy bar: a backrest installed on a motorcycle, used for a passenger or to tie down belongings

U HE,HO,I SEN SE: (SENĆOŦEN Salish) I will be alone.

A/N: Do not send me flames about insulting the great state of Texas. I AM FROM TEXAS. Contrary to popular belief, we Texans are not the only people who know how to kick ass. And yes, there is such a thing as a dollar dance, although I've never seen one in a biker bar before.

_**Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. All recognizable characters and song lyrics are the property of their respective copyright owners. Portions of Stephenie Meyer's original work are reprinted, but no copyright violation is intended. References to real places and groups are used fictitiously, and certain elements of history are ignored. This story is in no way meant to reflect actual criminal events or territorial claims of gangs or motorcycle clubs in Vancouver or any other location.**_


	6. 6 2010

**Thank you to all my lovely readers; you're so awesome. I've posted a link to Bella's dream bike on my profile.**

January 2010

Koerner Library

UBC

"I can't believe you're quiting your university job but you're going to keep working at that dump!" Shalice hissed, earning a glare from a passing library aide.

I kept my face composed—easy to do as long as I was sober and well-rested. "Why is that so hard to believe, Shalice? Business has been good this winter, and Brown and Marty said they'd like me to stay. Even if I don't work there, I'll be in there every week or two anyway. Why not keep working a few nights a week? I make some extra cash—more than I ever did spooning soup—I get to talk to my friends, Brown has some help on busy nights, and I still have time for my class load. If I need time off to travel for research trips or work on my thesis, it's a heck of a lot easier to ask Brown for time off than the tyrant who runs the cafe." Since I'd taken on such a heavy class schedule during my first two years, I had the ability to stretch out my senior status for a long time and take on fewer classes at a time during each quarter, but the homework and research was intense and time consuming, and working around the cafeteria's ever-changing schedule and bitchy kitchen manager was hardly conducive to my studies.

I heard my roommate huff. "But what happens if Immigration finds out? Won't you get deported or something?"

I turned away from the records I was translating for my genealogy project and looked Shalice directly in the eye. "They won't find out if everyone keeps their mouths shut, and I know nobody _there_ is going to rat me out, so that just leaves you. You know damn good and well the campus jobs pay dick, and my scholarships don't cover everyday living. Even with my savings from the summer, the café pay alone isn't enough money for me to live like I want to and save up for grad school."

Shalice's sea-blue eyes glittered in irritation. "It would be if you weren't boozing it up all the time. You come home in a cab drunk off your ass every Thursday, and you want to tell me they gave you all that liquor and beer for free? I don't think so."

I glared right back. "Let's do the math, then, Miss Business Major. My last paycheck from the school was about $180. UBC pays me eight bucks an hour, which means if they have me working on a Friday evening, the most I can make is sixty-four dollars before taxes. Waiting tables at the bar, I can easily make twice that in the off-season on a Friday night, sometimes more, and I keep it all. When I drink, I order one highball and a few three-dollar drafts. You pay eight dollars a glass for a slew of glorified hot chocolates, and you want to lecture me about how I spend my money? God, you really are just like my mom, aren't you?"

"Ladies, _please!_" the librarian scolded us from a few shelves away. Shalice and I cast identical irritated glances at the woman, then returned to our conversation in hushed tones.

"I'm just trying to make you see the practical side of this," Shalice answered with eyes narrowed to slits. "Yes, I know your campus job pays squat. The university knows that, too. Don't you think they're going to get suspicious when you appear not to have a job, but your grad school tuition is still paid in cash at every due date?"

I sat back in my seat, playing with a strand of my hair while I thought about this. "You have a point," I conceded. "But I still don't want to work in the cafes anymore, and I don't want to give up the Chatterbox." I didn't think I could. It was my refuge.

"Check the job postings," Shalice said sensibly. "We just got back from Christmas break, and that always means people are changing things around as they take new courses. I'm sure someone has to be hiring a student aide during daytime office hours, and they're flexible about scheduling around your classes."

"Good idea. Thank you," I said, nodding quickly before opening up a browser window on my laptop. "Sorry for jumping down your throat."

"Yeah, I know," she replied. "I'm sorry for channeling the parental unit." She paused for a moment. "You really think I'm overpaying for the Irish Hot Chocolates?"

"Shalice," I said knowingly, "let me put it this way. For what you spend at Gatsby's in one night, you could buy a large bottle of Bailey's at full price, keep some in a flask, and spike your own hot chocolate every day for at least a month. You might want to rethink the whole M.B.A. plan." I smiled at her quiet laugh and tried to navigate through the university's newly relaunched website. "Now hush, I'm job hunting. Go back to your macroeconomics." I scheduled an appointment with Student Services for the next day and started filling out a questionnaire. If I was very lucky, I might be able to snag a vacated position in my own department left by a recent graduate…

"Well, Miss Swan, it looks like the only available spot right now is in financial aid." The campus employment specialist was a burly man, and though he worked an office job, his rough hands and muscular build told me he was no stranger to hard work in some form or another. I liked him immediately. "They can work with the hours you've specified, and the pay is better, but the work is more challenging than your previous job. You'll have to do a lot of data entry and filing, schedule appointments and prep for staff meetings, do a little advising for the undergrads who come in, kiss up to the bigwigs, things like that. It's a little intimidating, dealing with the scholarship providers. Think you can handle all that?"

I could speak four languages fluently and get by in even more. I could disassemble and reassemble a 1340cc two-cylinder four-stroke engine and not worry that it might explode when I started it back up. I could handle a bar full of drunken bikers spoiling for a brawl and not break a sweat. I could face down a coven of vampires and keep my cool. I once ran to meet a bloodthirsty monster who wanted to kill me so that he'd spare my mother. Scheduling appointments for wealthy, aristocratic jerks who liked having things named after themselves? "Yes sir, I can deal with that."

"That's what I thought," he chuckled. "You can start tomorrow morning. Report to Jenna in the Student Services building, second floor—she's your supervisor, so she'll be the one to make your schedule." He thumbed through a file folder and yanked out a sheet of paper. "Here's a list of the duties you'll be responsible for."

Just like that? The ease of it surprised me. "Thank you, sir. But don't I need to give notice at my other job?"

He actually snorted. "I know your boss. He's single-handedly responsible for the largest employment turnover rate in UBC history. You should be congratulated for not walking out on him in the middle of a shift within your first six months of working there. If he gives you any trouble, have him call me."

I should have done this years ago. Time to celebrate…

"Just one drink tonight, Brown," I said later that night. "I've got a new day job tomorrow."

"That's great!" His wide, warm grin sliced across his features, obviously pleased for me. "So does this mean I need to find someone else to waitress for me?"

"As if you could get rid of me that easily," I huffed playfully. "Now gimme a beer. Hey, Ben!" I called, waving him over to my end of the bar. "How're you doing? How's your little girl?"

"Hannah's great," Ben answered, bringing his drink along with him to sit by me. "I spent Christmas with her on the rez, and she loved that dollhouse you picked out for her. Played with it for hours."

"See, I told you," I laughed, remembering the day I'd given Ben a lift to the toy store, since his work truck was out of commission and he couldn't exactly haul large packages on his bike. It was my way of thanking him for helping me move to upperclassman housing with Shalice (finally), since my boxes of reference books, tribal artifacts and artwork, and bizarre amount of clothing were too heavy for me. "I may not be much for mothering, but I remember the stuff I thought was fun at that age. She had enough space for it in her room, right?"

"Absolutely," he assured me, giving me a funny look. "Her mom made sure of it."

We sat for a while and shot the breeze, complained about all the extra traffic with the Olympics gearing up, compared notes on the places we'd traveled to, discovered we both saw _Avatar_ and liked it. He decided my SENĆOŦEN accent sounded much more natural now and less like I was trying to sound like an old man, as it had in the beginning. We took much too long to finish our beer, finding it warm and bitter by the final swallow, but I didn't mind. Ben was a nice man, at least to me, and a good friend.

Eventually I made myself fish my cell phone from my coat pocket. "YÁ, SEN DOQ," I sighed reluctantly—_I'm going home._ I didn't want to.

"Can I give you a lift?" he offered.

I _had_ always wanted to ride Ben's bike, but I wasn't stupid. "How many drinks have you had?" I looked him over speculatively, watching how his eyes reacted when I shifted to the side. His speech and coordination were good, pupils normal.

"Just the one, I swear," he promised, raising his right hand. From the corner of my eye, I saw Brown nod precisely once, and I analyzed Ben's hopeful face for something other than his intoxication level.

_That's the beautiful thing about being human: things change._

I miss you, Edward.

"Okay, Ben. Just this once."

* * *

March 2010

Bella and Shalice's Apartment

Marine Drive Student Housing, UBC

"So you're saying the reason I'm always fishing is not because I like it, but because I'm genetically predisposed to doing it?" Charlie couldn't repress his laugh, amused with my theory.

"It would certainly explain why you're always at it," I offered. Genetic memory wasn't solely _my_ idea—a few of the forensic anthropology students had been kicking the idea around with me, debating the merits and science of it. "Who we were influences who we are. Do you have any idea how important fishing _was_ to our ancestors? Last time I went to Skidegate, I must have recorded and translated at least thirty stories about fish." I made a habit of visiting the Haida immersion school (as well as a few others) several times a year for one project or another, to study their language program, but most of all to feel connected.

"Can't I like fishing just because it's relaxing and peaceful?"

"More relaxing than playing cards with your deputy all day?" I asked.

Charlie harrumphed and muttered something about crazy notions. The truth was I _wanted_ him to be such an avid angler all those years because he was fulfilling a duty encoded in his DNA. It was better to believe that than to believe he went fishing so often because he'd rather relax by the water than put his foot down and spend the time and effort obtaining custody of me when it became obvious that Renee was an inappropriate guardian. But I didn't say any of that because I didn't want to fight. My dad could rightfully point out that I would have had a conniption if he tried to take me from Renee when I rarely deigned to visit Forks at all in those years. I supposed it didn't matter anymore anyway—that was water under the bridge at this point.

"How's Sue?" I asked with just a hint of a tease.

I could practically hear Charlie grinning over the phone. "She's great. God, I didn't know it could be this great."

Laughter bubbled up in my throat—my father was positively _glowing,_ and I couldn't be more pleased for him. "I'm glad you finally got up the guts to propose."

"Yeah, and it only took me four years," he chuckled with me.

_Twenty-one,_ I thought to myself, remembering an old argument with my mother, _but who's counting? _"Are you sure she doesn't mind living off the rez?" I asked. "She's been on La Push her whole life."

"She says she's fine with it. Her daughter Leah is going to take over the remainder of her term on the tribal council after we get married, unless she declines, in which case her spot will go up for immediate election within the tribe.* Seth said he's interested, but he's away at UDub, and Sue says she'll kill him if he gives up his scholarship and grant money." Sue was not wrong to feel that way—about fifty percent of the Quileute population was below the poverty line. Seth was pre-med—he would be an idiot to throw away free money for school.

"Have you ever sat in on a council meeting?" I asked, beginning to think of a new research paper I had been assigned for my Topics in Applied Anthropology class.

"No, not me." I heard Charlie rattling around in his kitchen, looking for something in the fridge. "Council meetings are for enrolled members of the tribe. Sue could tell you about it, though. Call her here tomorrow afternoon, and she'll be free."

"Thanks, Dad. I will." Sue was a strong, intelligent, grounded woman, and I knew she'd be better for Charlie than Renee ever was.

"Did you like what she did with the place?"

I smiled, remembering the short trip I'd taken over Christmas break. Sue Clearwater had earned my undying gratitude, not only for making a mean ham instead of making me do all the cooking, but also for finally doing away with that awful yellow paint in the kitchen and going with glossy white cabinets and a nice, soothing sky-blue for the walls. "Dad, I can't remember the house ever looking so good. I like what she has planned for my old room, too." I whole-heartedly _welcomed_ the idea of not entering a time warp every time I went for a visit and had to sleep in the same old bed. "It'll be perfect as a guest room for when Leah's kids come over."

"Yeah, well, it'll be nice having kids in the house again," Charlie hinted. I heard him pop the tab from a can of something—beer, probably.

"Da-ad," I groaned good-naturedly, "I told you I don't want kids."

"You're only twenty-two," he felt the need to remind me. "There's still time to change your mind about that."

"Exactly, I'm _twenty-two._" Really, this was getting ridiculous, but I knew he meant well, so I tried not to get mad. Say what you will about Renee, but she never pushed me to be a baby-maker—I rather regarded her as the poster child for birth control. "I'm still in college, and there's so much I want to do that I just _can't_ do if there's a baby thrown in."

"I'm not saying you should go for it right now," he clarified, "but I think it's premature for you to completely discount the idea. And you don't have to _have_ a baby—you can adopt an older kid. You're a good person, you're responsible, and you have so much knowledge to pass on. I think you'd make a great mom. You know, in the future," he added, "when you've done all the things you want to do, whatever those may be."

I smiled, acknowledging the compliment, even if it was motivated by his own personal wish. If nothing else, it was good to know he didn't automatically assume bikers made bad parents. "Thanks Dad, but I think you'll just have to make due with spoiling Sue's grandkids. I'm sure they won't mind. Harry died before they were born, and Leah's husband doesn't have a dad. I think they'd like having you for a grandpa."

"Hmm…I suppose…" Satisfied with my logic for the moment, Charlie felt comfortable enough to move on with his standard questions. "Are you safe up there? The Olympics didn't make it dangerous for you to be out and about, did it?"

"Everything's fine, I promise." He still had some idea that every large city would eventually turn into one big riot, given the right stimulus. "It's been a little nuts here with the Canada taking the Gold in hockey, and apparently there's a city-wide condom shortage—"

Charlie started choking.

"Which I remain unaffected by," I reassured him, smirking. Served him right, I thought.

After he recovered from his coughing fit, he asked me more conventional things: how was my car running (recently tuned up), how was work (the office was busy trawling for new scholarship donors), and how was my _other_ job?

I finally came clean with Charlie about that a few months ago. He surprised me by not being all that surprised. It bothered him a little that I was working at a _biker_ bar, but I reminded him that over the years he taught me plenty of defensive and aggressive moves used to subdue a suspect. Brown was a good sport about talking to my dad on the phone for some 'man-to-man' type of conversation, whatever that was about. Once Charlie was assured that Brown and I didn't put up with bullshit from customers who harassed me, and that he did not need to come up to Vancouver to put the fear of God into anyone, he was reasonably okay with it.

"Going great, Dad." I brought my left hand closer to my face, examining the skin around my knuckles. There were more creases and lines than I remembered—when did that happen? "Good enough to pay the bills."

Charlie grunted in approval. If there was one thing he understood, it was doing what you had to do to make ends meet. "Are you excited about graduation?" he asked.

"More nervous, I think. I've been working so hard on my thesis, and I want it to be good." I also wanted it to be over and done with already so I could move on to learning something else. Plenty midnight oil had been burned in sacrifice on the Altar of the Most Holy Thesis, and time for a personal life was at a premium. My ninety-page opus was due the following week, the deadline looming over me like a guillotine. But in a good way.

"Have you thought any about coming back to Washington for your graduate degree?"

I hesitated. To appease Charlie, and in the spirit of keeping my options open, I applied to UW's graduate program as well as UBC's, but when the acceptance letters came in, the choice was easy. "Actually, Dad, I've decided to stay here for that. Our facility is so much better, we teach languages that UDub doesn't offer, and I like our program and professors better."

"I figured as much." He didn't sound disappointed at all, just resigned. "Do you think you're going to change your immigration status?"

"I've been thinking about that, actually," I said slowly. "I've lived in Canada almost long enough to qualify as a permanent resident. It would make the work thing a lot easier, and getting health care. And…it's kind of my home now." I hadn't thought of any other place as home in a long time, and I wondered if that made my father sad.

Charlie exhaled into the phone. "I know. You haven't come here for the summer in years, and I know you've made good friends." He paused, and I knew what his next question would be before he asked. He hadn't asked this one since Christmas. "Are you seeing anyone?"

Pinning my phone between my shoulder and my ear, I lifted my right wrist and twisted it in the late afternoon light streaming through the window. My silver bracelet shone back at me, a beautifully formed representation of the Jumping Whale and the Thunderbird. According to the familiar tribal legend Ben shared with me when he presented the velvet-lined case, the hunted Whale was oblivious to the powerful hunter Thunderbird, chief of all supernatural guardians.

"Kind of."

"Really?" Charlie sounded delighted, but seemed to check himself, clearing his throat before going on in a sober, almost nonchalant tone. "That's nice. Have you told your mother yet?"

"I e-mailed her," I sighed. "Thought I'd spare myself the joyful screaming." I knew she'd be more excited about it than was necessary or appropriate, which her reply confirmed. It still bothered me that she reacted more favorably to male attention than to the fact that I'd nearly completed my degree, but then she saw a potential romance as more immediately gratifying.

"I understand why you'd do that." My father's eye-roll was almost audible, but so was his grin. "So what's he like?"

I smirked. "You want to talk about my love life, Charlie?" I always thought he'd be satisfied that I wasn't alone so long as he didn't need to know the details.

"Damn right I do," he said, smug, amused, and unrepentant. "I want to know what kind of person my daughter is dating."

I thought for a few seconds about how to respond. "Look, it's not like some high school thing where we're officially 'going steady.' I'm too busy to carry on a normal courtship, and Ben's out of town for work sometimes. We just spend time together when we can, and we're finding we enjoy each other's company."

"That's nice, but you didn't answer my question," Charlie replied shrewdly.

Exhaling in mild exasperation, I chose to be honest. "He's older than me."

"And by 'older,' you mean more than five years, am I right?"

"Yes, Dad." I held my breath, waiting for the axe to fall.

"I figured he would be." He wasn't yelling. I might have even heard my father's tacit approval, but I couldn't be sure it was real and not just wishful thinking. "You're not usually all that comfortable around people your own age."

"That's true." Truer than he knew.

"Where'd you meet this 'Ben' guy?" From the sound of it, Charlie already knew the answer.

"The Chatterbox." What was the point in lying? I was a grown woman, not a seventeen-year-old kid with something to hide.

"Is he respectful?"

"Very."

"Responsible?"

"Absolutely."

"Heavy drinker?"

"No."

"Smoker?"

"No."

"Criminal history?"

"Clean."

"Mind if I check?"

"_Yes,_ I mind."

A disappointed sigh. "What does he do?"

"Builder."

"Baseball fan?"

"Hockey."

"Bringing him to the wedding?"

"Probably not—summer's his busy season. And we haven't hit that stage yet."

"Stage?"

"You know, where you start going to each other's family events." Shalice swore that was a stage. A milestone, even. Seeing as we'd not yet reached the kissing milestone, I was loath to jump the gun.

Charlie interrogated me for a few more minutes before he said something that caught me off guard:

"You're happy, aren't you, Bella?"

I looked at the old and battered suede jacket hanging over my dining chair. "I _think_ so."

* * *

May 2010

Chan Centre for the Performing Arts

UBC Graduation Ceremony

"Oh, honey, you look so beautiful!" Renee gushed, pulling me in for a hug and trying not to wrinkle my gown. The simple, elegant silver chain she'd just given me shone brightly around my neck—she remembered that I preferred silver over yellow gold. "I'm so proud of you."

"Thanks, Mom," I answered, grinning at her and handing over my jacket for her to hold. "Now get to your seat. They need me in the ballroom for instructions."

Renee gave me a quick kiss and paused for half a heartbeat, her _I love you_ hanging silently in the air. She didn't say it. Neither of my parents expected a verbal response to that endearment anymore. I squeezed her hands instead. She beamed, understanding, then turned away and rushed back to Phil.

Commencement speeches always bored me. Thank heaven UBC organized its ceremonies by department, reducing the amount of congestion by disbursing the convocations over a period of days, so I didn't have to worry about a listening to a valedictory address in addition to all the other speeches. Wasn't it enough that we all worked our tails off and were receiving the degrees we tried so hard to achieve? Was it really necessary for the Chancellor to bore everyone to tears? There was no culture to this ceremony anymore, only pomp. But it had been done for centuries, and my loved ones deserved to share this with me, so I sat when it was time to sit, stood when it was time to stand, handed my name card to the reader, and walked across the stage, turning to smile for a picture and to hear my parents and step-parents cheer, to laugh as Brown and Marty and Ben whistled at me.

As I descended the small staircase with my diploma in hand, I happened to glance up, to the very top section of seats in the center of the theatre. I saw a tall figure with reddish-brown hair and a long, dark coat, his back to me as he slowly walked toward the exit. My heart gave a little squeeze as I made my way back to my seat, but the third level seating was impossible to see from the floor level, and anyone could have hair that color with the right box of dye. I couldn't deny to myself that He was still a part of me, but I was done indulging in fantasies and false hopes, done looking for a castle in the sky, just _done,_ so I convinced myself it had to be someone else before it was time to head outdoors for photo ops in the sunshine.

My family took me out to an interesting Indian fusion restaurant called Vij's for dinner, graciously inviting my guests along. Brown and Marty declined, needing to go open the bar, something they delayed for the day to come to my ceremony, but Ben accepted. My mother laughed nervously when I introduced her to Ben, not because of his tattoos (she had a butterfly tattoo on her hip), but because he was the same age as her husband, and she didn't know what to do with that truth. I didn't either, which was why I never thought about it. He was Ben, I was Bella, and it didn't need to be more complicated than that. If I allowed myself to remember, which I rarely did, Ben was actually about seventy-six years younger than my only serious boyfriend.

After dinner I was in the mood to keep celebrating, and Charlie and Phil wanted to see the famous Chatterbox where I spent so much of my time. I was nervous about that, but they insisted. Ben said he'd meet us at the bar while I ran home to change into more casual attire and ordered a cab. I took more care than usual with my appearance, wanting to look like the sexy, confident woman I hoped I'd grown to be. Thankfully, Sue opted to stay at the hotel with Renee, sparing us all from my mother's inevitable nerves at being faced with a horde of real live bikers. I would have to remember to send Sue a thank-you card.

Phil blanched when he saw my Haida raven tattoo peeking up from my cleavage under my black leather vest. As our cab wound through the streets, I told a few stories about Raven, an important figure in aboriginal cultures of this area, liberator of the sun, thought to have discovered mankind in a clamshell. Not shy about it, I explained that the breast was traditionally the correct tattoo placement for that tribe, and that I'd discovered my ancestors on Charlie's mother's side were Haida of the Raven clan and had been similarly, though more elaborately, adorned. In point of fact, I researched my family history going back six generations and asked for the tribe's permission before I had it done.** When I assured him that the wound had only hurt me for a few hours until the swelling went down, poor Phil went even paler under his Florida tan, and I had to stifle my laughter. I thought his reaction was especially hilarious since Charlie, who heard the old stories from his mother and grandmother, didn't react at all except to shrug and say I should have gotten a swan, since the purpose was to identify one's family name. Clearly Phil still remembered the younger version of me who guided a frivolous Renee away from such things, but Charlie knew me better, knew I didn't take permanent things lightly.

"Bella!" I was subjected to a round of cheers, backslaps, and a few hugs when I walked in the bar. Good people, my regulars, even the ex-cons. Normal, at least from my perspective, and they celebrated my success, happy for me, having essentially watched me grow up. The highlight of the night, however, came shortly after my arrival, when Marty walked in and called us to come outside. There, only ten feet from the front door, was a maroon-and-cream 1986 Harley Davidson Heritage Softail. With a bright blue bow on the seat.

I spun around and stared at Marty, who stood with her arms folded, grinning.

"Marty…how?"

She glanced back, and I saw Charlie, Phil, and Brown smiling expectantly.

"Oh my _god_," I gasped.

"Congratulations, honey," Charlie said happily, coming forward to give me a hug. "Just promise me you won't ride when you're drunk, okay?"

Translation: _I accept you for who you are._

"I promise, Daddy," I whispered, fighting tears as I gave him a kiss on the cheek for the first time in ten years. "Thank you."

"Well what are you waiting for?" Brown huffed good-naturedly after I'd given everyone another round of hugs and thanks, with an extra peck on the cheek for Brown. "Get on that thing and take her for a spin!"

I touched the bike…_my_ bike…reverently, feeling the soft leather of the seat, the cool chrome on the handlebars, the heat radiating from the engine. I turned the key, slid onto the bike, and started her to life. Obviously Marty had done some work on this old thing, but already I was planning how I would tweak it, what parts I needed to order, which saddlebags I'd like to get eventually. Ben came forward and strapped my new helmet—his gift—to my head, seeing that I was still too awed to do it myself. I rode around the neighborhood, probably waking up the residents but not giving a shit, letting the cool breeze cleanse me, just enjoying this long-lost feeling before I went back to the bar.

_Happy._

The party raged on for hours. Charlie was completely amazed at the high alcohol tolerance I'd acquired, and Phil took me aside and said he finally understood why I resisted a move to Florida so strongly—I would never have been this free to be myself living so close to my mother. Marty promised to keep my bike for me at her garage until tomorrow so I could enjoy getting hammered tonight and catch my cab home. We were joking and howling with laughter when I heard the music from the jukebox change.

My song.

"Miss Bella," Ben murmured in my ear with audible amusement, "would you like to dance?"

"I'd love to," I beamed, vaguely noticing my father smile and look away as we stood up.

Ben held me close, his grip warm, strong, and supportive, two-stepping me in tiny circles through the small bit of empty space that constituted our dance floor.

"_I think of two young lovers, running wild and free. I close my eyes and sometimes see you in the shadows of this smoke-filled room."_

Warm breath blew into my ear. "May I kiss you, Bella?"

_I want you to be human…_

I closed my eyes and lifted my mouth to Ben's.

I'd never felt anything so _soft._

* * *

June 2010

Clallam County Courthouse

Port Angeles, WA

"Nervous?" I asked, pinning the little boutonniere onto Charlie's lapel. There was a small room set aside, just larger than a standard walk-in closet, for the groom to prepare himself before the ceremony. Billy was waiting in the judge's chambers, and since Charlie had no sons and Seth was with his mother, it was just the two of us.

"God, yes!" Charlie was fidgeting, highly uncharacteristic of him, and breaking out into a sweat.

"Well stop it," I ordered with a smile. I pulled a handkerchief out of the little clutch that matched my dress (it was about damn time Alice and Rosalie's formal wardrobe came in handy for something besides eBay auctions) and dabbed at my father's forehead. "Sue loves you. She's out there waiting for you."

"But what if she changes her mind?" Charlie whispered, as if there might be ears listening in a room that was empty of everyone but us. "What if she doesn't want this?"

Oh hell. Time for a pep talk.

"Dad." I placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to grip him without wrinkling his brand new tux. "Sue is not Renee. She is not a flighty teenager who doesn't know what she wants. She is not 'trying this out.' Sue loves you. She knows what she wants in life, and you're it."

I must have come across as a little too serious, because something in my father's eyes changed. "Are you talking about Renee, or Edward?"

I snatched my hand away as if he'd burned me. "Charlie!" I hissed.

"That's why you don't get along with your mother anymore, isn't it?" he deduced. "You tolerate my faults and failings but not hers because you feel like she did to me what Edward did to you."

_Well, look who finally caught on._ Sarcasm aside, Charlie hadn't spoken that name aloud in nearly five years (to me, anyway), and now he just said it _twice_ in under thirty seconds. "Do we have to talk about this now?" I dodged. "You're getting married in five minutes, for god's sake!"

"Yes, we do," Charlie insisted. "We never talk about it, and I can't blame you for not wanting to, but there _are_ a few things that need to be cleared up, especially now that you're finally seeing someone and I'm getting married."

I didn't see any connection between my ex and my father's wedding, but I didn't argue any further. "Fine," I huffed, grateful that Ben was stuck on a job in Calgary and did not have to witness this highly awkward moment. "Make it quick."

"First things first: does Ben know anything about Edward?"

"No," I answered quietly. Little by little I was beginning to allow myself to trust Ben, but there were still some things I chose not to share. "He's aware that I was with someone and got dumped, but that's it, no details at all, not even names. I'd like to keep it that way. That part of my life is over." It was supposed to be, at any rate. I kept telling myself that was the case.

"That's your decision, and I'll respect it," Charlie nodded. "But if you don't want Ben to find out more, you probably shouldn't bring him to Forks that often, at least not yet. People with nothing better to do still talk whenever you come to town, and the Cullen place still hasn't sold. I'm not even sure it's on the market anymore."

"Okay," I agreed tentatively, wondering if anyone ever discovered the break-in. I never did go back to see what became of the evidence—I wasn't stupid enough to return to the scene of the crime.

"Second thing," Charlie said rapidly. "Your mother had her own reasons for leaving me, and those are not the same as whatever excuse Edward gave for not contacting you when his family moved to California." My dad had no idea what excuses Edward made or what Edward's real reasons were for leaving, and there was no way I was bringing _that_ up, so I remained silent and let him finish.

"Third: we are all adults now." The severity in _his_ face shocked _me. _"No more flighty teenagers. No more first loves and unrealistic expectations. If our hearts get broken, it will not kill us, it will not be the end of the world, and it will not be an excuse not to try again."

For just a moment, I tried to remember the sound of Edward's laugh, young and rich and velvet. If I were drunk, the musical sound would have been alive and clear, but it wasn't there. Instead my sobriety-clouded mind conjured Ben's deep chuckle that somehow reminded me of the sea. What did velvet even _sound_ like, anyway?

I smiled archly at Charlie, tucking my handkerchief back into the tiny purse and smoothing out the invisible wrinkles in his suit over his squared shoulders. "Then what are you still standing here for?" I asked. "Go out there and marry Sue already."

Grinning at each other, Charlie and I opened the door, linked our arms, and went forward to the judge's chambers.

* * *

August 2010

Ground Floor Lobby

Marine Drive, UBC

It had been a slow paced, wonderful day, the kind I'd given up on long ago. Sandwiches in the sunshine at Jericho Beach, sitting on logs and staring out across the clear water at the sleeping mountains as Ben told stories about the pranks he and his cousins played on each other as children. Cruising around town on our bikes, not to go anywhere, but to see where we _were_—it seemed like I'd lived in Vancouver for so long and never took time to appreciate all the hidden gems, like the Dragon Boat races. We had dinner out at an African place called Nyala, where I laughed at the irony of simultaneously feeling underdressed while eating with my hands. Finally, a walk through a secluded part of the park near my apartment, just talking. I was on a Ray Bradbury kick lately, thanks to Ben—he read _Dandelion Wine_ to his grandfather as a teenager, hoping to stimulate the old man's memory with a book about a small town in the nineteen-twenties, and he wound up collecting nearly every book Bradbury had published since 1947. Such a simple but fascinating pleasure, sharing our perspectives in this way; obviously his experiences were different than mine, but the undercurrent of common ground was there, and it was refreshing to have my opinions taken seriously. We talked about the short story _One Night in Your Life_, and wondered together if there was such a thing as a single perfect night for everyone, a night you shouldn't question, a night you'd remember forever and should never talk about after, because it might never happen again. He said he had a nearly perfect night once, and I said I did, too, and we didn't talk about it, both of us aware that the real reason you never discuss your perfect night was that it would only make you sad. Instead he held my hand, and I wanted him to kiss me, and he did, and it was delicious.

But now our own evening was coming to an end, and I was still completely unsure how to end it.

"Bella," Ben groaned into my mouth, "please?"

Ben had been patient with me, not wanting to pressure me at all. Privately, I suspected that he was probably nervous about me being so much younger than him—ignorant though I was of the ways of men in general, I could see that he'd gone out of his way not to make me uncomfortable, giving me all the time I needed. This was not about finding himself a fuck-buddy—there were willing enough women for that, and Ben knew from experience that it never ended well. He also felt that if he'd taken more time to get to know Laura before rushing into sex and marriage, she wouldn't be his ex-wife now. It wasn't that she was a bad person, or even that he didn't love her; it was just that they weren't compatible, and they didn't figure it out until after Hannah was born. The story was eerily familiar, and we were both wary of repeating history. But beyond that, I was nervous about going further than the kisses and furtive grasping Ben and I shared, and I couldn't nail down one good reason why at first, other than that I felt strange about it.

The first time he invited me back to his place after an evening out, I declined politely, telling him I was tired and wanted to get home and get to bed.

He didn't ask again until a month and a half later, when I took him to the Museum of Anthropology on campus and showed him some of the exhibits I helped put together. Perhaps he assumed I was disconcerted about the idea of going to his house; he asked if he could come upstairs to my apartment. Unwilling to hurt his feelings, I told him he was welcome to come visit, but that Shalice was there studying, she having decided to take classes through the summer as well. He took the hint gracefully.

The third time we were at the Chatterbox, both buzzed but not falling down drunk, and he pulled me in for a kiss that said, with perfect clarity, that he wanted to come home with me. His hands clutched at the small of my back and the nape of my neck, drawing me in closer until my breasts pressed against him. With the way his hips met mine, and how my underwear felt moist, my hands slithering up his back of their own accord to take hold of his shoulders…I'd just begun to think that maybe I could relax enough to go through with it, to just let it happen naturally, when I heard the ancient words in my head.

_I don't think that…that…would be possible for us._

I broke from that kiss forcefully, apologized to Ben, told him I wasn't ready, and climbed into my cab alone, crying all the way home. Shalice worried something had happened to me, but I assured her that I was fine, that I just needed solitude, and gathered a two-liter bottle of Coke, a half-full bottle of Jack Daniels, a glass, and a bowl of ice. I shut myself away in my room, hearing the velvet-smooth voice of yesterday for the rest of that night, long into my dreams.

_It's just that you are so soft, so fragile…I could kill you quite easily…breakable…never, never afford to lose any kind of control when I am with you…more careful with you than usual… Have you ever…? We have that one thing in common, at least… no one should look so tempting, it's not fair…_

Goddamn right, it's not fair.

_Damn it, Bella! You'll be the death of me, I swear you will…be good, please…you are utterly indecent…how many times do I have to tell you…you always have to push for more…you have no idea how it frustrates me…you're greedy…that was out of line…you're overestimating my self-control…stop pushing your luck…you're not good for me…I don't want you to come with me…I don't want you to come…I don't want you…_

I woke up screaming obscenities that next morning in at least five languages, including some new ones. Shalice took away all the liquor in the apartment, afraid I might accidentally kill myself with alcohol poisoning, and I spent my entire Sunday sobbing instead of working on my research paper. I owed Shalice big-time for sobering me up and keeping me that way. That day she and I had about as frank of a discussion as I ever had with anyone on the subject of my ex-boyfriend.

"So basically," Shalice said perceptively, her eyes narrowed in righteous indignation, "what you're saying is that you're technically a virgin, and you have intimacy issues because the boy you fell in love with was afraid of sex?"

I smiled morosely at this portrait of Edward's psyche. It was a simplistic analysis, but dead on. I only wished he could hear it.

"And when his family moved away," she pressed, "he actually told you that you weren't good enough? He didn't even try to part as friends? Just 'bam, we're done, you're not even worth keeping in touch with'?"

"Yes," I groaned, covering my face with my hands and wishing Shalice would bring back my whiskey from her boyfriend's place, or even some Irish Cream. I was getting sick of straight coffee. "He said I wasn't good for him. Those were his exact words." During the six months of nightmares after He left, I pondered to myself if there was a difference between _you're not good for me_ and _you're not good enough._ When taken out of context the former seemed to imply that I'd be good for someone else. But since we hadn't been talking about someone else, only each other, I concluded that both meant the same thing: _You're not good at all, and I won't put up with you anymore._

"Was he gay?" Shalice asked, tapping her fingernail on the handle of her coffee mug. "Because it sounds like he was in the closet and was trying to force himself to feel something for you, and he just wanted to sever all ties when he couldn't manage it."

I sighed and shook my head. "It does seem that way, doesn't it?" His closet wasn't quite what she imagined, but essentially her theory was correct.

"God, no wonder you never want to talk about this stuff with Renee." We both looked at my mother's picture perched on a nearby shelf, a snapshot from her single days.

"Her answer to everything is 'put out,'" I sniffed. Phil didn't know it, but Renee contracted gonorrhea when I was fourteen, before they met, and she had to be treated with antibiotics. I always felt that the ease of treatment gave her a false sense of invincibility. "Meanwhile, the one person I really wanted to try with…" I tapered off, fighting yet another round of tears. Five years later, and He still had so much power over me, enough to reduce me to this blubbering mess. Putting the past behind me was easier said than done, apparently, in spite of my resolve and progress.

"Listen, Bella, I don't know why your ex was such an _ass_," Shalice consoled me, "but you can't let his problem be yours anymore. Sex is natural and healthy and, if I do say so myself, one of the best parts of being human. It's not dirty…well, not unless you like it that way…" I turned away from the glazed look in her eyes and groaned again. "What I mean is," she said rapidly, her face reddening, "there's nothing bad or wrong about it."

Outside of the people from the bar, Shalice was my only real friend; I stopped bothering to socialize with her circle of friends long ago, tired of wasting my rare free time with people I had no interest in. While it generally seemed more a matter of convenience for me to go on living with Shalice—better to simply keep the same roommate who I knew I got along with rather than deal with breaking in a new one—the truth was that I had never let myself feel how much I actually liked her, nor had I ever given her enough credit for how insightful she was and how great a friend she could be when I let her.

"As long as you're careful—make sure you're on the pill or the patch for a full month first _and _use condoms—" she cautioned, "and you and your partner are honest with each other about things like health and sexual history, there is no reason for you not to enjoy yourself with a living, breathing person instead of that Rabbit of yours that you keep buying batteries for."

My old tendency to blush came back in full force. I always tried to be quiet when I pleasured myself. Perhaps it was time to replace the Rabbit again, since the silent mode didn't seem to be working anymore.

"Oh stop," Shalice grinned, "I have one, too. What I mean is: Ben isn't like your ex-asshole. He's good for you, I can tell. He wants you, and you want him. Or at least…_do_ you want Ben?"

Thinking of the way my body melted when he kissed me, I had to admit to myself that I did. Maybe not quite as much as I once wanted Edward, or maybe just in a different way. But yes, on some level, I wanted him.

Ben was a man, not a boy. He had physical needs, as did I, and these needs were not sufficiently met by 'flying solo.' A fact that I was becoming increasingly aware of the more time I spent getting comfortable with Ben's hot, moist breath, his rough but soft touch, the dull scrape of his teeth against my throat. Like me, his lips blazed with heat when aroused, and right now his were boiling against mine as we pressed against each other in my downstairs lobby after our day in the rare sun.

"Please?" he growled again, devouring my mouth with his kiss as he guided me in the general direction of my elevator, his fingers subtly slipping over my hips and kneading my backside. Ass-grabbing was a thing idiots at the bar did, but Ben caressing me like this was something entirely different and exciting for me, inspiring wild gasps that seemed to make him want me even more. A fresh wave of arousal emanated from the pit of my belly; the feeling reminded me of feathers. Despite the touching, I knew Ben would restrain himself, not because he was worried about hurting me physically, not because he had some ridiculous idea that he'd be stealing my soul, but because he wanted me to be ready for this, and he was only waiting for me to give my answer.

He _wanted_ me.

From the piano practice room down the hall—nearly all the residences had them, and this place was no different since the last remodel—I thought I heard the soft strains of "Clair de Lune."

_I knew that if I continued to ignore you…someday you would say yes to Mike, or someone like him…_

Gently, I broke from Ben's kiss and turned to press the elevator button.

"Yes."

* * *

_Footnotes:_

_*In real life, Quileute tribal council positions are elected, not inherited. There are five slots, each for a three-year term, and terms are staggered. I have no idea if, in real life, Sue would have had to give up her seat in this situation or would have kept it, or whether someone would have taken over her position for her—that part of my story is creative license. It is true that about half the Quileute population lives below the poverty line. They aren't making money off the Twilight series or merchandising._

_Am I going to include Meyer's wolf pack in this story? No. I don't preclude their existence, but this story is not about them. So whether there is or is not a group of werewolf/shape-shifters in the background of this universe is up to you, the reader, but Bella isn't aware of one, they aren't relevant, and they will not be making an appearance in my story._

_**It's true that tattoos were used by the Haida to identify clan membership, and that they were sometimes placed on the breast. I have no idea if the real Haida tribe is currently in the business of telling other people they can or cannot tattoo Haida artwork onto themselves. The reason I included that piece of creative license is because 1) historically, in Haida culture, tattoos were important; the placement was often just as important, if not more so, than the image itself, and I think Bella would be respectful of that and ask first, and 2) I wanted to give Bella a better sense of her own evolved identity._

_**Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. All recognizable characters and song lyrics are the property of their respective copyright owners. Portions of Stephenie Meyer's original work are reprinted, but no copyright violation is intended. References to real places and groups are used fictitiously, and certain elements of history are ignored. This story is in no way meant to reflect actual criminal events or territorial claims of gangs or motorcycle clubs in Vancouver or any other location.**_


	7. 6 pt 5 2010 Outtake

August 2010

Bella and Shalice's apartment

UBC

"So," Shalice asked conspiratorially, "how was it?"

"Well…" I replied quietly, not looking at her, but at the living room rug. We really needed to vacuum in here.

"Oh, come on."

"It was…" I felt too shy to go into details, but she'd been forthcoming with me. "It was the first date I ever had that lasted the entire weekend."

"That's a good start," my roommate said gleefully. "Tell me more."

"I feel weird talking about it," I told her, meeting her eyes only briefly. "It's private. I mean, I would hate it if he were talking to his friends or his cousins about this."

"Bella." Shalice flicked my knee with her index finger. "It's not like we're discussing this before an entire sorority full of girls. It's just you and me. And given your lack of experience, it's probably best if you have someone you can trust to talk to about this. It's either me or Marty, and I'm already right here." Sensing my hesitation, she delivered her killing blow. "Unless you'd rather call Renee."

Not only no, but _hell_ no.

"Thought so," Shalice gloated, correctly interpreting my expression. "So tell me how it went."

"It was…" I searched for the right word, and could only come up with one: "Awkward."

"_Relax, Bella." Ben sat on the edge of my bed and pulled me in to stand between his legs. Not sure what else to do, I wrapped my arms around his neck, holding on loosely as Ben showered my throat with moist kisses. _

_I took a deep breath and released it slowly, trying to come to terms with the sensation of work-hardened, masculine arms pressing against my bare back and heated lips descending on my nipples. My first instinct was to stay very, very still._

"Oh," Shalice frowned. "I'm sorry." After a moment's confusion, she added, "But you said the date lasted all weekend."

"Awkward at _first_," I qualified. "It didn't hurt or anything. I just…I didn't know what I was supposed to do with my arms and legs."

"Ah." She gave me a sympathetic look. "Ben say anything?"

"Yes," I sighed, "but he wasn't rude or bossy or anything. I just kind of let him take the lead at first. He didn't expect me to be all that experienced."

"_I won't hurt you," Ben whispered, his mouth returning to mine as he explored my body with his hands, finding secrets hidden in my skin, urging me to move, to relax. "We can go as slow as you need to."_

_I moaned wordlessly into his mouth, my fingers automatically clutching his hair when I felt him roll us over into bed._

"_Ow."_

"_Sorry," I apologized quickly, afraid I'd already ruined everything before it had a chance to begin. "I'm sorry." My fingers fluttered as I tried to decide where to put my hands instead._

"_Hey," Ben stopped me, his face hovering over mine. He smiled reassuringly and took one of my hands in his, intertwining our fingers and pressing our hands into the mattress above my head. "It's okay. Just don't pull so hard."_

"So he schooled you," Shalice commented. "That's good. That's what you need."

"Yeah," I agreed, trying to hide my face.

_Ben didn't take a long time with foreplay, but seeing as we'd more or less been engaging in foreplay all day, and all summer, I couldn't say I blamed him. It was enough for me that he kissed and massaged my thighs, that he parted my legs and pressed himself against me, that he touched me in all the ways I'd been longing for. Everything broke down to skin and movement. Fingers around my ankles. Tongues probing. Tattoos flashing. Weight pressing against my body. Welcoming a different kind of hardness into the soft space within me._

"Bella." Shalice wasn't about to let me get away with anything. "Are you _smiling?_"

I pressed both hands to my face for a moment, then pulled them away, revealing my shit-eating grin.

"_Harder," I moaned, tightening my legs around his waist, giving myself over entirely to sensation._

"_Are you sure?" Ben gasped, one hand on the headboard for leverage as he met my eyes._

"_Please, harder!"_

"Wow." Shalice smiled wickedly. "How was it?"

I closed my eyes and lifted my face to the sun shining through the window.

"_Ben?" I murmured after, once more unsure of where to put my limbs, afraid anything I did would be considered clingy or just…wrong somehow._

"_Yeah?" Ben muttered back, one arm thrown across his eyes, the other splayed out and hanging off the end of my mattress._

_I hesitated at first. For all my efforts to come across as an adult, I couldn't help but feel too young and insecure. My question would do nothing to alleviate that feeling, but I wanted to know, so I asked, prepared for whatever consequences came my way. "How was I?"_

_Silence._

"_I mean, I know I wasn't perfect," I said nervously, worried that he was trying to come up with a tactful synonym for 'lame.' "I just wondered, you know? If I'm…um…" _Worth sticking around for. _"Any good."_

_Ben uncovered his face and gave me an indecipherable look. Then he reached over, taking my face into both hands, and kissed me deeply, as if I held his air supply, until somehow I was lying on top of him with my fingers in his hair._

"_I'm not going anywhere, Bella." He pressed his forehead to mine, looking entirely at me. I didn't know what to say, so I just stared back. "Just let me sleep for a couple of hours," Ben smiled, "and we'll try again."_

"For once," I answered happily, "I don't think I can find a word that covers it."

It was a lie. I didn't tell her, because she'd think I meant it in the physical way when it wasn't like that at all, but I had a word.

_Relief._

* * *

**Why the outtake, nosleep? Couldn't you have just tacked this onto the end of chapter 6?**

**_For one thing, I liked ending chapter 6 where it was. For another, I wanted to be sure that if anyone had any objections to the content, I could remove this segment without sacrificing the integrity of chapter 6. I will still be posting chapter 7 in a few days, but I can't give you an exact day, as real life is starting to become hectic. _**

**_I do not own Bella's character; Meyer does. I do, however, take full credit for imagining Ben._**


	8. 7 2011

**Word Count: 12,605**

January 2011

Ben's garage

Vancouver, BC

"Not that I'm complaining," I sighed, watching as vapor from my breath rose in the air, "but why are we building a doghouse in January?" My too-large suede jacket still kept my chest warm enough, but the rest of me was another matter. I held a handful of woodscrews in my gloved left hand, and a mug of good, old-fashioned coffee in the right—Ben, much like Marty and I, believed that anyone who combined alcohol and tools deserved their fate if they lost an appendage. I'd just come back outside from checking on our dinner, my step-father's traditional New Year's Day recipes: boiled cabbage for wealth, black-eyed peas for good luck, and ham hocks for prosperity. It tasted great in a Southern kind of way, but it smelled _awful_ while cooking. I much preferred the sawdust scent of the garage.

"Because Laura is poor at planning," Ben grumbled, double-checking his drawing before aligning the plywood to the frame. "Hannah's grandfather—you've met him, actually. He's the director of the Saanich Adult Education Centre." I nodded, remembering the firm but joyful man who welcomed my interest in his life's work. "He got her a rescued dog for Christmas, and in all the excitement of possible names, dog bowls, leashes, shots, and chew toys, Laura forgot that dogs need shelter if you're going to keep them outside for any length of time. Hold up this wood right there and hand me a screw."

I set my coffee down next to Ben's on a nearby workbench and complied, looking over the inside of Ben's garage and trying to hear the sound of his banged-up shop radio over the din of the power drill. As garages go, this one was fairly organized. It was unfinished, meaning there was no drywall, but the walls were covered in pegboards, shelving, and homemade cabinetry. There was a table saw, a nail gun, some landscaping equipment, and a host of other power tools I couldn't readily identify. Ben had a large, red Crafstman toolchest on casters, the updated counterpart to my forty-year-old portable toolbox, specifically for his mechanic tools—we made adjustments to our engines together before the winter set in.

"You didn't fight with Laura about it, did you?" I asked carefully. For the most part, I tried to mind my own business where that part of Ben's life was concerned, primarily because I expected the same courtesy. But he'd opened up the discussion about his ex-wife this time, and I had to admit that I was curious if there was actually such a thing as a divorced couple that got along. People who got along with each other didn't just break up for no reason, right? At least, I didn't think that was how it was supposed to be. I didn't exactly have a good frame of reference for normal, healthy relationships.

"Nah, we just had a little strained conversation," Ben replied, already on the second wall—he was nothing if not efficient. "We try not to argue in front of Hannah, but sometimes…I swear to god, Laura never thinks to tell me about this kind stuff. She puts herself in a tough spot when she doesn't need to be, and she gets pissed if you can't drop everything to fix the problem for her, then she gets even more pissed if you get mad. If she would have just said something, I could have taken care of this last month and had it ready when I visited for Christmas."

My curiosity somehow unsatisfied, I held my hand out for Ben to pluck another woodscrew. "I don't mean to dismiss your effort," I told him, "but why didn't anyone just buy one of those igloo-shaped plastic doghouses? It's easier, it's cheaper, and that poor little dog wouldn't have been out in the snow this whole last week."

"His name is Bear," Ben smirked, "and he's part mastiff, part Irish wolfhound. That dog is bigger than _me._ It's either this or the whole family pitches in to buy him a tool shed." I looked at the frame again and realized that I'd fit quite comfortably inside the finished structure, with enough room for my sleeping bag and an ice chest, possibly a mini-fridge. He even built a _floor_ for the damn thing, with joists and everything so that it could sit on top of several cinderblocks. "I don't mind building things like this," he continued, moving around me to drill screws on the other end of the wall. "It's fun, actually, and I'm always glad to do something nice for Hannah. It's just going to be a real bitch getting this in and out of the truck."

"We've got beer and soul food to bribe your neighbors," I laughed, moving out of the way so Ben could retrieve the next wall piece.

In a far corner of the room, behind a tall storage cabinet and the supply of precision-cut plywood for our project, I noticed a several small boxes of random supplies perched on a crooked table. I stared at it for several moments before seeing the pleasant memory of long hair three shades lighter than mine, a thoughtful, round, inviting face leaning over a slanted desk covered in huge sheets of graph paper, mechanical pencils, paint swatches, photos, marble tile samples—_Bella, I'm thinking of redecorating upstairs. I never did get around to redoing the bathroom beyond installing the new plumbing. What do you think about these for the floor?_

I still had the tiny square tiles tucked away in a little wooden box my underwear drawer.

"Is that a drafting table?" I asked, every bit as curious about its presence as its misuse.

"Yeah," Ben answered distractedly, aligning the next piece. "My folks gave it to me years ago."

I reached over and grabbed the building plans for this sturdy structure. It was hand drawn, not printed off the internet. The notations were all in Ben's even lettering. I didn't know why I was so surprised—obviously Ben built things for a living, though there wasn't much work to be had now that it was the slow season. The reason he got this house so cheap was because it was a fixer-upper and he could remodel it himself.

"Did you go to school for this?" I asked, holding up the blueprint with one hand and the plywood with the other as Ben indicated. This wall was shorter than the one directly across from it.

"Doghouse Building 101," Ben teased, moving quickly as the doghouse in question took shape. "Is that class not in the course catalogue at UBC?"

"No, smartass," I laughed. "I mean these plans you drew. Did you go to school for it, or did you learn it on the job?"

"I studied civil engineering at Camosun College in Victoria," Ben answered as he fastened the final wall to the frame. "I was hoping to get into the UBC architecture program eventually. I tried to, anyway."

It seemed like a statement that would normally be accompanied with a certain amount of bitterness, but his voice held none. I wondered if he was rejected and made peace with it, or if he needed to hurry up and get a job at the time because of Hannah and Laura. "What happened?" I asked.

Ben took the plans from my hand, studied them a moment, and moved on to affixing the roof. "Sometimes you think you know what you want in life," he grunted as we lifted a large, heavy piece of plywood over the standing walls, "but when you finally reach it and take a good look at it, it's not at all what you thought it would be."

Haunted, I reminded myself that we were talking about Ben's career, not Him or His betrayal of me. "Architecture wasn't what you thought it would be?" I exhaled roughly from the exercise, noticing that because of the way the frame and walls had been built, the roof sat at an angle so that rain and melted snow wouldn't collect on the top.

"Not the way they taught it," he told me, climbing onto a stepladder and drilling still more woodscrews into the little roof. "I wasn't trying to learn how to draw theoretical buildings with no practical use, and I wasn't in it to win some kind of recognition for the most outrageous sustainable structure. By the time I was nearly done with my bachelor's degree, I realized a master's in architecture wasn't what I wanted after all. I wanted to build, really put my hands into the work, not sit back and draw. So I got a job on a construction crew in Victoria and stayed with that company until my divorce. Once Laura and I split, I came here. Can you hand me the felt paper and the stapler?"

"Did you finish your engineering degree?" I asked, handing him the large sheets of black paper he was pointing at and swapping tools with him.

"I did," he answered, laying the paper across the roof and securing it. "Dad told me the more you know, the more the boss is willing to pay you." Ben hopped down from the ladder and traded his staple gun for a nail gun, opening a package of something. It looked like—

"Ben," I said, amused, "are those _shingles_?"

"I don't want the roof to rot, obviously," he defended. "Or I'll just have to go back and replace it again in a few months. I don't believe in half-assing my work. If I'm going to take the time to do a thing, I intend to do it right."

"I see," I nodded, finally understanding. I strode up to him purposefully, surprising him with a kiss on the cheek.

"What was that for?" he smiled, expertly cutting and folding the edges of what would be the bottom layer of shingles.

"For building a doghouse nicer than my first dorm room," I grinned, grabbing a shingle and following his example of the correct folding pattern. "Even though it's not your dog." The Greeks called what he was doing _meraki_—putting something of yourself into what you do. It was the same way I felt whenever I spoke or studied my languages, as if I could infuse my soul in the words.

"Anything for my Hannah," he chuckled. "And thank _you _for helping." My smile stayed in place as I helped him fix this roof for a dog I would never see, for a child I had never met. I expected to feel some sting, thinking that way, but there was none. I simply stood beside him and assisted and enjoyed being in the cool, crisp air, asking if Hannah had picked out a paint color and whether primer was needed for plywood, teasing him about installing gutters.

"You know, Ben," I said once the last row of shingles had been nailed down, "there's an old New Year's superstition that whatever you're doing on New Year's Day, you'll be doing a lot of for the rest of the year." I stripped off my gloves and tossed them carelessly onto a nearby tabletop.

Ben put down his nail gun and stared at me meaningfully. "Oh really?"

"Mhmm," I hummed deeply, stepping closer to him. "Another tradition says that the first visitor of the year can bring good luck, particularly if he's a tall, dark-haired man."

"Is that so?" Ben pulled me into his arms and grinned down at me. "So does that mean short, brunette women are bad luck? You're visiting _my_ house, after all."

I pressed an open-mouth kiss under Ben's jaw, exactly where I knew he liked it. "Why don't put away your power tools and come visit me in your bedroom?" I suggested, unzipping his coat. With Ben, there was no need to be quiet, reserved, or still. "Meet me there in five minutes."

"But I'm all dirty," he protested in a low groan, his arousal already evident against my stomach. He was like that sometimes, expecting me hit the brakes, turn girly on him, and protest any form of dirt. "I smell like a cedar mill."

"I know. It works for me." I raised an eyebrow at him and unbuttoned his pants, reaching in for what I wanted. It took time for me to get to this point, but my days of clumsy fumbling and uncertainty about my own limbs were long gone. "Unless the problem is that you want to keep the sheets clean. In which case…I've never had sex in a garage before."

"Goddamn it, Bella," Ben growled, grasping my face in his hands and angling my head up to meet his rough, hungry kisses. "I think you may be the perfect woman."

I laughed throatily and reached into my coat pocket, pulling out a condom. "On the tool bench or up against the wall?"

"Perfect," Ben muttered, making quick work of my jeans, tearing the condom package open, and nudging me backward until my back came into contact with a tall cabinet door. "Absolutely fucking _perfect_."

I moaned into his throat as he lifted me up and hitched my legs around his waist. "Happy New Year…"

* * *

February 2011

Marine Drive Student Housing

UBC

_Drunk-dialing._

My whole life I read stories and saw movies about people who completely lost touch with their parents once they left home. I was never able to do that, which simultaneously comforted and frustrated me. Renee never managed to lose my number, and for better or worse, I could never bring myself to change it without informing her. The part of me that remembered total abandonment wouldn't allow it. The key to getting along with Renee, I'd learned, was to limit our contact to small doses. Short e-mails. The occasional letter or card in the mail, because she liked Canadian stamps—I used extra postage every time. A phone call here and there. She seemed to understand this now, _finally_, and she'd been respecting the boundaries. Mostly. But for all my care in cultivating a sustainable relationship with her, my mother liked to stay unpredictable. Random telephonic ambushes like this were her idea of a wild card.

_This is why I usually screen my calls._

"It's not a big deal, Mom," I groaned, walking into my bedroom and carefully closing the door behind me so Shalice could study uninterrupted. "I have tests next week I need to study for. Ben has Hannah this weekend. Not seeing him for a couple of days is not indicative of a relationship problem."

"Oh, but it is," Renee replied cryptically. I heard her take a swig of whatever bottled beer or wine she had in front of her—bottles made a distinctively different sound than cans when you pulled your lips away from the rim. "Just not the one you think."

Renee had a terrible habit of being right about things I'd rather she was wrong about, but this time I wasn't putting up with her meddlesome bullshit. _Years_ she'd spent pressuring me to develop a romantic relationship, and now that I had one, it was apparently doomed to failure, not because of the age difference, not because of dissimilar career paths, but because my boyfriend had a child he actually liked spending time with. By this token, was I to understand that Renee's marriage to Phil would have failed if I hadn't left for Forks, or should I infer that she didn't actually like spending time with me, despite all her protests to the contrary at the time?

I rubbed my temple in frustration. "Mother, I don't know why you're so flabbergasted by the idea that I'm fine with things as they are. Regardless, this is in no way even remotely your business. Kindly keep your opinion to yourself." Hoping she would take my blunt advice, I tried to change the subject by hinting about the amount of studying I still needed to do, but she had a one-track mind this evening.

"I'm just saying, you and Ben are both incredibly busy people, and he only has so much time to devote to his personal life," my mother pressed.

"That's right, Mom. I tell you I've got to prepare for midterms, and you insist on arguing about my boyfriend and his daughter." And Renee wondered why I never wanted to visit her anymore.

"Honey, this is _important._ If it comes down to a choice between you and her, he's going to choose her every time." She said that like it was a terrible thing, like she hated the idea that someone would organize their priorities that way. Growing up as I did, I couldn't say I was all that surprised.

"I already know that, Mother. Do you honestly think I'd be with him if he was the kind of person to choose his social life over his kid?" Renee made no response; I wondered if she even registered the implied judgment of her parenting. "I understand why you're concerned, but this is a different dynamic than the one I grew up in; Ben is not the custodial parent. Certainly having me at home limited your social agenda," _though not nearly enough,_ I did not say, "but your love life didn't come at the expense of the amount of time I spent with Dad, and if Charlie ever did date anyone when I was that age, it certainly didn't interfere with my visitation. Hannah gets all the attention she needs from her father, and I get my fair share of his time. This arrangement works for us, but if we ever feel the need to change it, we will."

In fact, Ben and I had been discussing that very topic lately, though nothing had been resolved. It was a foreign concept to me, the way he regarded the idea as a family decision, subject to Laura's approval, not that I disagreed. Renee thought nothing of asking Charlie's permission for things like that when I was young. "So once more," I finished, "and hopefully for the last time, this is none of your business." _Drop it, for the love of god; just drop it so I don't have to give you a piece of my mind._

"Bella, I think you should consider what I'm saying." She took a sharp breath before continuing—ah, she was smoking, too. Perhaps this was more than just a drunk-dial; perhaps this topic was actually bothering her. "I'm glad you finally got over whatever was holding you back, but you're too young to be tied to someone with this kind of obligation. Shouldn't you—?"

"That's rich coming from you, Renee," I sneered, "considering how long it took you to find someone who didn't mind that you were a single mom, not that you acted like much of a mother. When you said you wanted to get married, I did all I could to support you. Who helped plan the wedding? Who got rid of our useless junk so he'd have room for his things? Who learned how to make his favorite meals? I even moved to Forks to get out of the way while you and Phil took off to travel the country, not because of some abiding love for Washington or loyalty to Charlie, but because you were _so_ unhappy staying home with me during your husband's away games, and I didn't want you to be miserable. I did everything to make you happy! Who are _you _to tell me a goddamn thing about obligation? Why can't you just be on my side and back _me_ up for once?"

If Renee felt any shame at all, she moved past it quickly to make her case. "I'm not backing you up on an error in judgment," she answered, infuriating me. "That little girl is still so young, not nearly grown like you were when I remarried. She's not capable of being a supportive adult right now. There's still time for you to get out of this and look for somebody without a—"

"Enough!" I hissed, finally understanding how she wanted me to solve what she deemed an unnecessary complication. "What do you expect me to do, just turn off _my_ feelings because you think _you_ know what's best for me? Tell Ben he's wrong for me because he has a life that doesn't revolve entirely around me and my needs? I'll be damned if I ever go through that shit—!" I stopped just short of adding _again._

"Don't you even care that you're in a relationship with someone whose top priority is someone else?" Renee demanded, clearly ignoring my actual words and just waiting for breaks in the conversation.

"I got into this with my eyes open. Ben never lied about what I should expect from him, which is more than I can say for _some _people." Maybe that would get her attention. "You don't know anything about Ben or Hannah or even _me._ I refuse to listen to your crap anymore."

Renee took a heavy drag from her cigarette. "With this man, you'll always be last. Doesn't that bother you at all?"

Somewhere deep inside, in a place I'd tried my damnedest to forget, I felt the deep, intrusive agony of a knife twisting in my heart.

"Being put last isn't exactly something new for me, Mother," I yelled, hating her. "You neglected to tell Phil about my sixteen-year-old ass for the first month of your initial online relationship. Not because you were trying to avoid sexual predators, but because you didn't have the courage to tell him you were thirty-six instead of twenty-eight. You pretended that I _didn't even exist._ Being last with Ben still feels better than coming in second—" oh, who was I kidding; Renee had always been her own highest priority, "scratch that, _third—_with you!"

Without waiting for her to respond, I hung up. One deep breath, and I started to scroll through my contact list for the cab company. If I got drunk enough and tried very hard to remember just the right thing, I'd be able to hear Him tell me I was the most important thing in his endless life. I didn't even care that it was a boldfaced lie.

Just as I found _Maclure's Cabs_, Shalice walked into my room without knocking. "Don't," she said quietly.

"Don't what?" I asked, looking up. Her eyes were so kind and worried that I flipped my phone shut.

"Don't let her do this to you," she clarified, coming to sit beside me on my bed. "I've been watching this for years. She calls and says something to piss you off, you call a cab, then you come home at two in the morning completely sloshed. Just…don't. It won't solve anything."

"I know that," I told her, slowly lowering the phone. "But it'll make me feel better."

"No, it won't," she countered, drawing one arm around my shoulders. "You stumble in with dried tears all over your face, you cry in your sleep, and the next morning you hate yourself. That's not _better._"

"It's all I know," I whispered.

"You know _me,_" Shalice said firmly, plucking my phone out of my hand. "Talk to _me,_ not to a bottle."

"I just…she just…" I looked down at my socks. Shalice had ordered the little _Born to be Wild_ socks as a gag gift for my birthday one year; they were actually quite warm and comfortable. "She always did know how to hurt me better than almost anyone." _Almost._

"That's what mothers do," Shalice said wisely.

"That's not what a family is _supposed_ to do," I argued weakly, thinking of caramel hair for the second time in as many months. "A family is supposed to love you and support you."

"You have an unusually idealistic concept of family for someone who grew up with this particular mother," Shalice pointed out, sounding a bit curious as she did so. "Was Charlie that kind of dad?"

"Not especially," I muttered. "We didn't really become close until I was an adult. I mean, he wasn't awful, but I didn't see him that much until I was seventeen. And even when I did spend vacations with him as a kid, he basically handed me over to Billy's two daughters so he could enjoy his time fishing." It wasn't always that way, if memory served; I had a vague impression of baking cookies with Grandma Swan before she got too sick to take care of me, and another memory of Charlie taking me aside and teaching me to defend myself. But more often than not, I would find myself at First Beach while Charlie fished, with Rachel and Rebecca Black chattering at each other in their Quileute-English twinspeak while I stared into the tide pools by myself. You could call that a lot of things, but you certainly couldn't call it parenting.

"Okay…then where are you getting this non-existent family archetype if not from your parents?" Shalice wanted to know.

"My step-mother is really great," I answered instead, though I wasn't thinking of Sue. "She's amazing with her own family, the way she tempers everyone. I just wish she'd come into my life sooner." _I wish Esme hadn't gone. I wish she'd loved me enough to stay._

"But she didn't," Shalice said sensibly. "And she's not going to teach Renee the proper way to be a mother, either. Why do you expect things to be any different than the way they've always been?" she asked.

"Renee was different when I was a kid," I sighed. "She wasn't perfect, but she didn't constantly tell me everything I wanted was wrong. She was fun, she encouraged me, and up until I was seventeen, she was my best friend." But was she my best friend because we had common ground, or did she just take up so much of my time with her antics that I didn't get enough chances to try with anyone else?

"I thought you said she relied on you too much to take care of her responsibilities," my friend replied.

"She did," I affirmed, remembering when Mom taught me to drive at the age of thirteen. Once she was satisfied that I could drive ten blocks to the Safeway without crashing or getting pulled over and ticketed, she handed me the keys and three twenties and told me I could go to the grocery store without her, since I'd already taken charge of both the budget and the meal planning. I didn't discover until years later that I could have been _arrested_ had I been stopped, or that _she_ could have been arrested for knowingly putting me behind the wheel alone. At the time, I simply believed it was the coolest thing ever. "For a long time I just thought it was normal for things to be that way. I believed looking after her was my job."

"Why didn't Charlie ever do anything?" she asked. "I mean…he couldn't have been unaware of what kind of person Renee was. He _was_ married to her."

I shrugged. "Charlie liked keeping things simple. He didn't know anything about raising a girl. Maybe he wanted to bring me home, or maybe he didn't, but getting it done wouldn't have been an easy feat. I hated Forks, and I made it no secret that I would rather live with Mom. She was 'fun,' and I thought I was free." Free to be just like her, only with more burdens.

"So did Renee just stop being fun and encouraging and supportive?" Shalice wondered.

"Yes and no," I answered. "We had an unusual relationship. When I was a kid, she was an oversized playmate. When I was a teenager discovering boys, she dated a _lot_ of guys. Vicarious living was always how she dealt with me. Mostly she was too afraid to be alone. Things turned sour when it was time for me to choose a university, and I chose to come here instead of moving closer to her. I think she wanted to continue living through me, but I wouldn't let her anymore. I still cared about her, but we couldn't agree on anything and started fighting all the time. Mostly, though, once I turned eighteen I just stopped thinking of her as fun."

"Why?"

For some reason, I thought of the day I woke up in the hospital in Phoenix nearly six years ago.

_I've been spending the night._

Renee sounded so _proud_ of herself for having done so, like it was such a big accomplishment for her to remain at my side when I was suffering from multiple broken bones, concussions, cuts, and severe blood loss. She stood there staring at my heavily bandaged body, tubes in my nose and a needle in my vein, expecting my accolades because she camped out on a recliner.

"I grew up."

* * *

March 2011

Ben's House

Vancouver, BC

"Hannah, this is Miss Bella. Bella, this is my daughter, Hannah." Ben smiled, but I saw the nervousness in his eyes.

"Hello, Hannah," I said quietly, giving the shy eight-year-old girl a friendly smile but not approaching her too quickly. Her shiny black hair was pulled back into a long ponytail; I noticed that her skin was a shade lighter than Ben's, with the slightly rounded smoothness of childhood. "I'm very happy to meet you. Your father talks about you all the time."

She looked at me with curious, bear-brown eyes so much like her father's, but she did not respond.

"Say hello, Hannah," Ben prodded gently, looking down at the top of her head and patting her back.

"Hi," she tried, hiding her face in her father's shirt like a much younger child but still peeking at me. Ben and I exchanged glances, and I could see he was worried that we were doing this too soon, though it was his idea. But I knew a little about Hannah from his stories, and I remembered my own childhood, replete with Renee's string of companions as she went through her serial monogamy phase, so I had some idea of what to do.

"I like your necklace," I said to her in SENĆOŦEN, knowing she was studying it in school on the reserve where she lived with her mother. "Is that WEXES?" WEXES the frog was honored as the keeper of sacred seasons, and this was the time of year when he was thought to sing in the New Year with the beginning of spring.

Hannah's eyes grew wide at being addressed in this tongue, and she replied with an exaggerated nod and an awed "HÁ,E." She fingered the little frog charm as she proceeded to tell me, in a mixture of English and her tribal dialect, stories she learned in school about the importance of the frog and other sacred animals.

"I brought something to show you," I said after a while, making sure there was plenty of room on Ben's threadbare couch so that she could sit as close or as far as she liked. "Would you like to see some pictures?"

Carefully, I pulled the album from my bag, grateful that my mother dragged me into a scrapbooking class for a month when I was fifteen. "These," I said as she scrambled to scoot a little closer to me than I expected, "are pictures of the Sonoran Desert, where I grew up. Everything changes colors there as the sun moves."

"The sky is very blue," Hannah observed, craning her neck to look at the pictures. "Don't you have any clouds there?"

"It didn't rain very often," I answered. "I liked that, though. Whenever I would lie down in the back yard and look up, the sky was like a giant bowl."

"Cool." She flipped to another page. "Why is it so pink? It's like neon." It wasn't such a strange question; most of the sunsets I'd seen here were varying degrees of orange, the sun a fireball in the sky.

"It did that sometimes when the sun set. That was my favorite time of day. It was so hot in the daytime, and the nights were cold, but at sunset, the mountains would turn purple, and everything was just right."

Hannah sifted through the book with me, asking questions about the heat and cacti and scorpions, and paused when she came to a collection of photos from the Hopi reservation in Northern Arizona. Little fingers lingered and hovered over the photos of the celebration, the native regalia and scenery very different than anything she was personally familiar with, and she became animated with her hunger for this new knowledge, firing off questions. "Did you live in a house made of _mud_?" she squeaked, examining an adobe house on a postcard. "Just like on Discovery Channel?"

"No," I grinned, turning to the next page. "See that place? That was my home. Just a regular house like your dad's."

She pointed, careful not to get fingerprints on anything. "Is that lady in the picture you?"

"No, that's my mom, and the little girl next to her is me." It was so strange, looking at this picture of Renee and seeing so much of myself in her—she was twenty-eight when the photo was taken, about five years older than my current age. We both looked happy. It was easy to be best friends when our conversations were about dolls and children's books. "I was about the same age you are now."

"I'm eight and a half," Hannah announced proudly.

"Yes, I know."

"You were adorable!" she decided.

"Thank you," I grinned. "You're lovely, too." Ben turned to smile at me over Hannah's head; I could practically hear his mental thumbs-up.

"Why isn't your daddy in the picture?" Hannah wondered.

"His picture is on another page. He didn't live with us. His city was far away, but I went to see him every year. I even went to live with him for a couple years when I got older."

"Oh." I waited to see if she would have any questions about that, but she only flipped the page again. "Hey, you're cooking!"

"Yes ma'am, I started cooking when I was very little."

"Did your mom teach you?"

"Good _heavens_ no," I laughed, "and trust me, we're all better off. I learned from cookbooks and cooking shows, mostly, and from a few neighbors." I pointed to a faded blue index card, covered with my friend Luzmaria's nine-year-old scrawl. "That's my first recipe for flour tortillas."

"Can you show me how to cook?" Hannah asked suddenly, looking up at me with pleading eyes.

"S-sure," I stammered, caught off guard both by the request and the tone of her voice, as if this were an important thing to her that I might deny. "If it's okay with your dad."

Hannah turned to her father immediately. "Daddy, please? I promise I'll be careful and I'll clean up my mess and I'll even wash my clothes before I go home if they get dirty."

Darkness clouded Ben's face for a moment. Obviously he was upset, though not with the child sitting beside him. "In _my_ house," he said quietly, "you can cook, and I don't mind a little mess." Another glance passed between us, and I nodded in understanding. At that moment, I was thankful that I'd grown up with a mom who regarded spillage as something that could be easily remedied, not the end of the world. "Just so long as you listen when Bella tells you to do something," Ben clarified, "and don't try to use the stove or a sharp knife without one of us here to supervise."

Happy with this answer, Hannah asked me questions about food and what other kinds of things I knew how to do before she remembered the book in her lap and began flipping through the rest of it, stopping at a photo of my frowning face and ripped tights at my ballet recital.

"You were a ballerina?"

I didn't know whether to laugh or cover my face with embarrassment, so I settled for shaking my head. "I took lessons, but I wasn't very good. I fell down a lot."

"Did you get hurt?"

"Yes," I answered swiftly. "All the time. But my friends helped me stand up again."

"Do you miss your friends?"

I paused, my fingers tracing the crescent scar on my hand almost of their own free will, though I hadn't given the cold scar more than a passing thought in forever. I could almost see the head of smooth, golden hair and hear the disgust in an otherwise gentle voice. _He bit her._

"It was a long time ago," I told Hannah softly. "I was very young then. I'm all grown up now."

"Yeah, but don't you miss them?" she pressed.

Covertly, I peeked at the underside of my forearm, at the long, jagged white line that slashed across my cream skin. My birthday scar. That was the last time I ever saw Carlisle, the last time we were all together before my humanity sent Them all running.

_It's not your fault,_ he told me._ It could happen to anyone._

_Could. But it usually just happens to me._

"Yeah," I whispered, earning a troubled look from Ben at the pain in my voice I couldn't quite conceal. "Sometimes."

* * *

August 2011

Peace Arch Hospital

White Rock, BC

"Son of a _bitch!_" I hissed under my breath. "Not you," I reassured the patient in the bed next to mine, who looked offended. "I mean my ankle. It feels broken and it hurts like hell."

"It _is_ broken," said a tall, thin, brown-haired woman in green scrubs and a white coat as she strode into my corner of the emergency room.

"Dr. Rutherford," I sighed, watching as she affixed the large x-rays to the light board on the wall. "Tell me there's some good news." Preferably news that it was a minor break, but at this point I'd take news that there was something stronger than acetaminophen on the way. Part of the reason it was taking so long for someone to bring me a painkiller was because the hospital insisted on a blood-alcohol test before I could be prescribed anything. As I pointed out to the nurse who drew my blood, if I'd been drinking, I wouldn't have _needed_ pain medication

"There is," my doctor nodded, though her face was grim. "The good news is: your talus and tarsal bones weren't pulverized into dust by your motorcycle."

Goddamn it. I almost never went out riding alone, but my afternoon class was cancelled, and the day was so perfect and beautiful. _Great job, Bella. You just _had _to feel the freedom._ With Ben away on a job in Alberta and Marty unable to get away from the bar, that meant my choices were either to wait until the weekend or head out by myself. I chose the latter, wanting to take advantage of the good weather to explore Peace Arch Provincial Park near the US border. Every time I crossed the border to visit Charlie I drove or rode past Peach Arch Park, but I'd never really taken time to look around. So I packed a lunch, rode for forty-five minutes to get there, and tried to find access to the beach. Everything was fine until I turned too hard on a damn dirt road and went into a skid. Luckily I wasn't traveling too fast; I didn't hit my head, and the left side of my body was bruised but not cut up. Unfortunately, my ankle got pinned under the bike, crushed, really. I was just barely able to reach back into my right-side saddlebag for my cell phone. And if that wasn't enough, my bike took damage, too. Fucking perfect.

I looked at the dark blue and white films on the wall, strange images made familiar thanks to years of clumsy behavior before I came to college. The healed bone growth on my tibia was visible, and I tucked my cold-scarred hand away automatically as I answered questions about how that particular injury occurred. The sight of the specific damage to my ankle was nauseating to look at, even as Dr. Rutherford showed me the undamaged bones in the rest of my foot.

"Doc, I feel a 'but' coming on," I groaned, trying not to jostle my leg.

She looked at me, her pale blue eyes sympathetic. "You'll need some surgery. Right now it looks like at least two plates, here and here," she indicated the shattered bones on the film with a pointer, "and some pins here. I'll know more once I go in and look. There's room in the OR schedule for you in the morning."

"Shit," I grumbled, pressing my hands to my face momentarily before giving her my full attention. She explained the procedure, how long I should expect to be on crutches, precautions against infection, the risks involved in having the steel plating removed down the road versus leaving it in, and physical therapy. The good news was that eventually I'd be able to ride again, probably in six months or so. And, since I was a legal resident of BC and the procedure was mandatory, not elective, I'd be covered by the public health care system. The bad news was that I had to give up the waitressing job at the Chatterbox for a while. There was no way I could carry a tray when I could barely walk, so there went a few thousand dollars income I'd been counting on. If I got put on bed rest, I might not even be able to finish out the summer class I was currently two weeks from completing.

Dr. Rutherford left not long after, promising to have me admitted and send someone in with pain meds. When a rather large Cantonese woman from the admissions office came in with a computer on a rolling cart, the first thing she asked for was my emergency contact information. I stared at her stupidly for a minute, unsure how to answer her before I explained that my family lived in the US and my old man was in the next province, thirteen hours away.

I didn't even know how I was getting home.

In the end, I gave Brown and Marty's number, since they were closest, then my roommate's. Shalice and I kept spare keys to each other's cars as a precaution, and I was pretty sure she'd come pick me up whenever I was released.

After the woman took my electronic signature on the consent forms and departed, I called and left Shalice a message so she wouldn't worry about why I didn't make it home for dinner. I would call everyone else after the surgery, I decided—no use getting everybody worked up over something beyond their control. I thought about calling Ben but felt it was better not to. He was too far away to get here before I went under the knife anyway, and there was no point in both of us missing work, especially since I didn't know how long I'd be stuck in here. _Damn it! I was supposed to show Hannah how to flip pancakes next week._

A nurse finally brought me some Tylenol-3 (the "three" evidently synonymous for codeine), and I closed my eyes and drifted away.

"…we're going to insert your IV now…"

"…Ms. Swan, this is your room. I'll assist you with this bedpan…"

"…Miss Swan, I'm going to check your vitals again and give you a mild sedative to help you sleep…"

_I would like to ask one favor, though, if that's not too much._

There you are. I've been waiting for you.

_Don't do anything reckless or stupid._

Why? You promised I wouldn't see you again. But you forgot that humans dream. You told me to take care of myself for Charlie, but he's not alone and he doesn't need me anymore. Nothing you said is relevant.

_Bella, you promised._

Why are you surprised? I thought you understood: humans get hurt all the time.

_That's no excuse._

Isn't that why you left? So you wouldn't be tempted to feed on me when this happened? So I could get hurt without you having to feel worried or guilty?

_Don't do anything reckless or stupid._

Are you going to come here and hold me, or are you going to lecture me all night? I had the worst day, and this is a terrible dream.

_Why do you have to be so stubborn?_

You know what? I don't need this from you. Leave me alone, dreamwalker.

_You'll just do something like this again._

And it won't matter—you aren't here to do anything about it. I'm going to wake up alone, because you only exist in my head now. _Aan dang k'yaaw g̱a hll ḵ'aawuu g̱as ga—I will sit here and wait for you. _But _you_ will never come.

_Bella…_

You're a _dream_. You're not really Him. He's gone. U TW̱ HE,HO,I SEN OL. YOŦ SEN OL U HE,HO,I. _I'm just alone now. I'm always alone…_

_A dulled metal grocery cart with a squeaky wheel and a red plastic handle. Shelves full of junk food towering over me. The promise of a motherly face and an enormous, state-of-the-art, empty kitchen waiting to be stocked with snack food for my visits—Charlie was finally relaxing his limitations about visitation now that school was almost out and summer was approaching._

"_Why do humans insist on making a spicy version of every kind of chip?" She was wearing a fire-engine-red wig today, something we picked up at the costume shop in Bremerton. She said it made her feel like Sydney Bristow, a character in some spy drama show, although why a spy would wear something so conspicuous I had no idea. Under the wig her real hair was so short, she didn't even have to cover her scalp with pantyhose. "I will never understand the desire to cover your food in cayenne extract. It stinks, it burns your mouth, and Carlisle says too much of it causes stomach ulcers. What's the point?"_

"_Variety, Alice," I laughed, grabbing a package of rice cakes to toss in the basket along with the Doritos and cream cheese, because I knew I needed real nutrition, too, not just empty calories. I had no wig, but we'd sprayed temporary purple dye in my hair, so for once the curious stares of the citizens of Forks made perfect sense, and were accompanied by smiles. "People get tired of the same old bland flavors."_

"_I can always tell when my prey has been into someone's pepper plants," she remarked, "and let me tell you, it's not pleasant."_

"_Do you think I should eat more spicy food?" I asked in earnest, dropping my voice. "Would that help Edward resist?" I would gladly set my mouth on fire three meals a day if it would lessen Edward's pain and guilt even a little._

"_No," Alice said lightly. "When I say I can always tell, I mean their bowels release the most awful-smelling—"_

"_Just grab the Ding-Dongs!" I ordered quickly, before my stomach turned and I lost all desire to eat ever again. So much for that idea. "Hey, if we pick up some Cokes, will you be able to keep it secret from Edward?"_

"_I've got you covered," Alice winked. "All I have to do is look ahead to what you two will be doing tonight, and he won't even _think_ about human food."_

"_I don't know if I want you looking for that," I replied insecurely, twisting my fingers together._

"_Too bad, I already did." She gathered three boxes of Ding-Dongs and deposited them in our cart. "Just a glimpse. That navy blue tank top I gave you with the spaghetti straps brings out your pale skin, and he loves that."_

"_You know how upset he gets when he thinks you're interfering," I reminded her. It was a cop-out—I was too chicken to tell her _I_ wasn't comfortable with her looking through my private moments. Last night was especially beautiful, complete with flowers and poetry and oh god his skin—that was supposed to be just between Edward and me, 'glimpse' or no._

"_Edward always behaves that way," she said blithely, something at the far end of the aisle catching her eye. "Right up until it's convenient for him to feel otherwise. Seriously, wear the blue tank top. You'll thank me for it later."_

_She fluttered away to examine whatever bright new package caught her attention while I exhaled and shook my head at the silliness of it all, something I did a lot whenever Alice and I were together. Intrusion was just how she operated, and it was best to maintain a sense of humor about it if at all possible, especially if we were going to be sisters for the next thousand years or more._

"_Alice, wait!" Holding on to my grocery basket for support, I clomped after her as best I could with this hideous black boot on my leg. Carlisle said it would be another two weeks until my leg was completely unhindered, just in time for me to start cashiering at Newton's store. Two weeks couldn't come soon enough—Alice was impossible to keep up with even at human speed. I was forever being left behind, but she was my family in a way my parents had never managed to be: she always twirled in place with her inhuman grace and came back for me._

Men and women hovered in the sky above me, a bright light shining over their heads, silhouettes of the vampire gods in my drunken imagination. One introduced himself as my anesthesiologist.

"This procedure should take a few hours, Ms. Swan. We're going to start with the laughing gas. I need you to breathe normally and slowly count backwards from ten." Rubbery plastic settled over my mouth and nose.

"_Diez, nueve, ocho__…_s-seven…" Seven little vampires jumping on the bed, one fell off and bumped his head…

The world stirred around the heavy weight anchored in my head. Chemical odors and the nauseating smell of open human flesh filled my nose.

…_regaining consciousness._

My quiet moan was magnified in my chest a hundred times, and everything was black and red and without form as I swam through tar, trying to surface, desperate to breathe. Something beeped nearby.

_Can you hear me? Your operation was successful…_

I opened one eye and saw the bleary form of a tiny woman in blue scrubs. She had short, spiky black hair and perfect pale skin. She smiled at me.

Alice?

_You're going to be just fine, honey._

Oh, _Alice_. I knew you'd come. Where am I?

_You're in the recovery room, Ms. Swan. My name is Jeanette._

Alice? Where are you?

_Don't cry._

Why aren't you here, Alice? You were supposed to come for me.

_You'll be out of here soon. I'm just going to check your wound._

Alice! I need you! They're hurting me!

_Ms. Swan, please, calm down or you'll reinjure yourself. Doctor!_

Alice! Help me!

_Pulse is 175 and rising, BP is 180/105, her incision is bleeding—_

Alice, please! I love you! _Alice!_

_Increase her Demerol drip rate by five. Get me 10ccs of diazepam—_

Alice! _ALICE!_ Alice…alice…

Black.

Cool air breezed across my face, pulling at wisps of my hair. The air smelled different—no iodine, no blood. Fragrant and sweet, like flowers. Like one of Them. I turned toward the scent and opened my eyes, letting everything slowly come into focus and assume its normal shape.

No one was there.

My eyes squeezed shut and I inhaled, trying to prevent a fresh round of tears, when I heard the familiar sound of a clearing throat in the vicinity of the doorway.

"Dad?" I tried to sit up, but a nasty pain in my ankle throbbed at me. I looked down to see my heavily bandaged leg and foot, elevated. I didn't remember so much…padding, before. Was that a cast?

"Hey, Bells," my father greeted me by my baby-name in his low voice. I tried to focus on him as he walked in, but the ache in my leg was distracting, and worse, it was strengthening. "How do you feel?"

"Hurts," I rasped, raising the head of my mechanical bed with the blue button and looking around the room. There was another bed near mine, but it was empty. The red-and-brown striped wallpaper behind Charlie's head was…moving? _Rolling?_ "Is it over? Did she operate?"

"Yes, she did." I stared at Charlie as he spoke, trying to understand why he looked so different. "All she would tell me was that your condition was non-life-threatening and that the procedure went well, but she couldn't give me details because you didn't have me down as a medical proxy." His irises, I finally realized—they were golden. Covering my eyes with my palms, I tried to rub the crazy out. "Why didn't you call me?"

"H-how'd you know—" I began, but suddenly I clamped a hand over my mouth. Charlie grabbed a bucket from nowhere and thrust it under my chin. I retched over and over, spewing yellow, mucous-flavored bile, my ankle aching more sharply with every heave.

"It's okay," Charlie whispered, taking the bucket from me when I seemed done and handing me a wet hand towel. "That's just from the anesthesia. It'll pass."

The damp rag was cool on my sweat-soaked face as I mopped at my skin and collapsed against the mattress. "What…" I gasped, trying to catch my breath, "what are you doing here, Dad?"

Charlie deposited the pink plastic tub under the nearby sink and walked back to my bedside, one hand lodged in his pocket, the other carrying a Styrofoam cup of water. "Shalice called me. She said you left her a message—she was under the impression that this wasn't severe, but I came anyway. I just got in a few hours ago." Something in his voice made me look at him closely as I sipped my water, at his eyes, sad cinnamon brown now, like mine. "Are you hurting?" he wanted to know.

"Yeah," I groaned, fighting the instinct to wiggle my toes._ Are you?_

"Should I get the nurse?" Dad asked rapidly.

"No, no. I can wait." I kept my eyes fastened on the wrinkle in the corner of my father's eye. It was wet. Maybe.

"Are you going to tell me what happened?" Charlie asked quietly but firmly.

"Um." Five years of college, and the first thing out of my mouth was _um._ Better than _fuck,_ I supposed. "I had a motorcycle accident yesterday and broke my ankle. You can stay and listen when Dr. Rutherford stops by later."

Charlie sighed and lowered his gaze, studying his shoes. "Because I'm a cop, I feel the need to ask: were you drinking?"

"Of course not!" My ankle throbbed in agreement. "You raised me better than _that,_ Charlie!"

"Okay, okay." He held his hands up, a gesture of truce. "I believe you. I just had to ask."

I folded my arms and looked out the door, watching as various hospital staff walked by in their multi-colored scrubs. I didn't see how anyone could tell the doctors, nurses, and orderlies apart when everyone was dressed the same. Maybe you were supposed to look for stethoscopes, print fabrics, and blood stains.

"Just so you know," Charlie said awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck, "I called your mother."

"Dad," I moaned. The sound reverberated all the way down my injured leg. "Why would you do that? Is she on her way here? God, like I need _that_." Did I really just say that out loud?

"You're her daughter," my father reminded me with a cross look on his face. "This is the kind of thing she would want to know."

"You know she's just going to show up here and start freaking out," I predicted.

"No, she's not," Charlie assured me, though I had no reason to believe such naïve assurances. Our mother-daughter relationship had cooled considerably after that phone call six months ago, but Renee was never one to miss an opportunity to get carried away. "I convinced her to stay put until I assess the situation. Just so long as you call her with good news and let her lecture you for a while, I'm sure she'll stay in Florida."

"Right. That'll happen." _Batten down the hatches, people. Secure the provisions to the lifeboats. _I puffed my cheeks and waited for Charlie to say something else.

"Bella," Charlie asked, sounding perturbed, "where's Ben? Why isn't he here?"

My tear-ducts seemed hyperactive today, but I could master those like I did everything else. "He's out of town on a job, and he won't be back until Sunday or Monday."

Dad's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Couldn't get away from work?"

"He doesn't know yet."

"Doesn't know?" Charlie almost shouted. "Why not? Why wouldn't you tell him about an _emergency?_"

"It's just a broken ankle, Dad," I sighed, looking at the bouquet on my nightstand, obviously from the hospital gift shop. Charlie, forgetting my aversion to them, brought peach roses mixed with sprigs of lavender.

…_like lavender…or freesia. It's mouthwatering._

I fussed with my towel, looking for a clean corner to press against my eyes.

"You didn't even call Brown and Marty," he said, still bewildered. "They had no idea until I got here and called from your phone."

"What'd they say?" I wondered softly. I forgot all about being scheduled to work tonight; I was supposed to close with Marty, since Brown still wasn't feeling well. They were depending on me and I let them down. Stupid, stupid, stupid…

"They were worried sick," my father informed me. "Brown said he'll be here this evening, when you've had a chance to rest, and Marty is coming by in the morning. They had me call the towing company and ask that your bike be dropped off at their house. I've already paid for it. Thought I'd save you some money on towing and storage fees."

"Thank you," I whispered, checking the wallpaper to see if it was still moving. Thankfully it was holding its position. "You didn't have to do that. I can pay you back, but it might take a while." My thoughts flickered to the safe bolted to my closet floor, then dismissed the idea. I would talk to my advisor in a few days, see if she had any useful advice. Maybe I'd be able to take on some tutoring or work as an RA—the resident assistant in my building never did anything but sit on her ass and fall asleep at her desk.

"I don't want you to pay me back," Charlie grunted. "Bella, what are you _doing?_ Why are you…?" I heard him make his exasperated noise, a kind of gruff, throaty exhale. "Why did I find out this way? Why did I get here and find you all alone?"

_Huu tll guu giidang. _That's how it is.

I took a deep breath and squeezed my eyes shut against the pain. I could handle pain. Pain was nothing. "I was going to call Ben after…now, I mean. You know, when I was sure I was okay. I didn't want anyone to worry." The murmur of my mother's voice tinkled through my ears: _You'll always be last. _I didn't want to be disappointed if I called him and he didn't come.

"What if everything _wasn't_ okay?" Charlie asked. "What if you had complications during your surgery? What if you went into a coma and didn't wake up?"

"For god's sake, Charlie," I hissed, trying to keep my foot still and most decidedly _not_ answering his question. "It's only steel plating and pins, not open heart surgery. I'm fine!"

"Why are you doing this?" Charlie demanded.

Red. The red call button was large and flat and depressed easily under my hand. "Can I get my nurse in here with more pain meds, please? This is really starting to hurt."

"Bella, please, talk to me."

"Your nurse will be there soon with some Tramadol, ma'am."

"Thank you!"

"_Bella._"

"I didn't call anyone because I didn't need anyone," I snapped. "This is my mess, my fault, and I don't need anybody to come in and rescue me. I can handle it on my own. I'll be _fine._"

"On your own." Charlie pressed his lips together and nodded, not in agreement, but as if contemplating something. He dropped his voice and leaned close, like he was trying to keep a secret. "The doctor said you asked for Alice."

_Don't get attached—you only lose what you cling to._

I didn't look at anything, but it didn't matter. For a fleeting moment, I could see her beautiful smile again. Then it, like everything else I ever cared about, disappeared. "Yeah, well, I was drugged. I probably asked for the Easter Bunny, too." _Never trust anyone you can't prove exists._

"You didn't _scream_ for the Easter Bunny." He sighed, and it sounded almost like shame. "I never realized—" Charlie placed his hand over mine, but I jerked it away. "Don't be like that. I'm just trying to help."

"I will deal with this, Charlie," I huffed. "You don't need to worry about it."

"Bella—"

"I'll be fine all by myself," I repeated, turning my head away from him so he wouldn't see the tears falling hard and fast.

_Don't rely on anyone else; the only person with the power or desire to take care of me is _me_._

"I'll be just fine."

* * *

October 2011

Charlie's house

Forks, WA

_This is so stupid. Why am I crying in the middle of the night at Thanksgiving?_

Really, there was no reason for this. I was so _fortunate_, and I knew that. Lucky I never developed a post-op infection. Lucky that Sue came up to Vancouver during my initial recuperation time on pretense of giving _Renee_ a break from having to help me get around during those first two weeks, and that I had people who cared enough to assist me after that. Lucky that my incision healed properly and my hard cast would be traded for a boot next week, with physical therapy beginning not long after. Well-favored, in a darker but no less appreciated way, that I now could not afford to fly to Florida for Christmas, where Renee was hosting Phil's family holiday gathering this year. Fortunate that I still had office work that wasn't physically demanding and paid enough to get by, and that I had time enough to study and to host tutoring sessions, and that I would be able to finish my Master's degree in the coming year if I took a few extra courses in the summer. Lucky that between Ben, Marty, and myself, we'd be able to fix the damage to my bike's engine, though I couldn't exactly ride it at present. Blessed (by whom or what, I didn't know) that I was alive and well and able to spend Canadian Thanksgiving-slash-American Columbus Day in Forks with my dad and his wife, with a gaggle of step-siblings, in-laws, nieces, and nephews, and with Ben, whose daughter was away on vacation with her mom and grandparents this year.

_Nieces and nephews,_ I thought again, trying to smile. It was bizarre having four kids call me 'Aunt Bella' and clamor for my attention. Sue probably had a lot more to do with that than Leah—I didn't know Leah very well at all, and I only saw her family once a year for the most part. Still, it was kind of nice; I could handle being Aunt Bella for a while, so long as nobody asked me to hold the baby for too long. They would be visiting again tomorrow, 'helping' Sue, Leah, and I prepare a feast—Hannah would have loved being allowed to help in the kitchen with the other kids. Charlie and Sue were coming around to the idea that Canada got it right, that Thanksgiving was better celebrated in October to put more time between expensive, fattening holiday meals, so we were expecting a full house tomorrow. Seth was even visiting from college in Seattle, and he had always been pleasant company.

So many things to be thankful for. I should be ecstatic right now.

Grateful.

Small sniffles escaped from my nose. Try as I might, I couldn't keep quiet enough. Shutting my eyes didn't help; I could still see the same thing I'd been staring at for the last couple of hours, and the throbbing sensation felt more acute.

"Bella? What's wrong?" Ben rumbled, snorting abruptly out of a particularly loud snore and rolling over beside me in bed. Sue had given away my twin mattress set and brought in the full-sized bed she once had in her old house, ostensibly so that she could fit all the grandkids in one bed for sleepovers. She and Charlie suffered no illusions about the nature of my physical relationship with Ben, and they did not feel a need to impose false notions of propriety that neither of them held to. Not that I was in a fit state for anything like that at present. Anyway, it was better for me to have someone with me at night in case I fell or needed something. "You're shaking. You alright?" Ben asked.

"Sorry for waking you up." I whispered to cover what I knew he would hear in my voice. "I'm okay."

"The ankle bothering you again?" he persisted, groggy but concerned. "Do I need to fix your pillow?"

"It's just the damp weather and cold air." _Please don't look at me._ The thing I hated about being stuck in this cast was that I couldn't roll onto my side, not to get comfortable, not to have sex, and not to hide my face. "Go back to sleep."

So of course, Ben propped himself up on one elbow and peered down at me. "Don't be so stubborn, woman," he sighed, rubbing his face with his free hand and sitting up. "I'll get your Naproxen."

"Ben, I'm fine," I protested, wiping my eyes hurriedly while his back was turned. "It's just a little achy. No big deal."

He listened—I could always tell when he was really listening—but that didn't stop him from fishing my medicine bottle out of my bag and sitting it beside the water glass from the nightstand. "Stop being brave. It's just me."

The low light made it difficult to see his features, but I could imagine the strong set of his nose. Sometimes, when I had a few too many beers (never with meds, because I wasn't an idiot), I could imagine him as a proud warrior in another life. Generally this led to hot, wild sex, although that was unlikely to happen in my dad's house, injured or not. Quietude was a quality I did not possess in bed.

Shaking myself from this errant thought (_where did that come from, anyway?_), I exhaled harshly in resignation and pushed myself up into a sitting position. "Fine. Just one, though. It's not _that_ bad."

Ben handed over my pain pill and water before he returned the prescription bottle to the luggage. "Say what you like, Bella. I know it hurts."

I swallowed my medicine quickly and placed the water back on the nightstand, carefully avoiding knocking over my forearm crutches. After a moment's consideration, I settled back under the covers again, shifting my foot around while Ben readjusted the cushion. "What makes you say that?" I asked, staring up at the ceiling.

Ben crawled back into bed and threw an arm across my stomach; I fought the urge to squirm. The warmth of another body was something I should have been used to by now, but tonight it felt especially foreign. "You think I didn't notice you crying?"

My eyes shifted back to the window and the rocking chair beside it that held my scruffy suede jacket. Ben had offered to get me a new jacket for my birthday, but I declined, insisting new boots would be better, since mine had to be cut off me after the accident for my x-rays.

Two hours I'd been lying awake, staring at that window, that jacket, and that chair. Waiting.

Waiting for the screaming to start again, the ancient pain of my younger body's physical manifestation of loss and abandonment. Waiting for the window to slide open. Waiting for a lecture on what a terrible job I did stitching the jacket back up. Waiting for Him to make me beg Him not to kill the fragile human male who dared to share this bed with me, in this room that was once our oasis. Waiting for Him to steal me from this life. Waiting for Him, any of Them, to love me, if only for my blood flavor. Waiting to be worth something. Waiting to wake up from a strange, six-year-long dream. Waiting to suffer and die all over again.

I placed a hand over Ben's on my belly and laced my fingers with his. "I've hurt worse before."

Ben squeezed my fingers and moved closer, placing a sleepy kiss on my shoulder. "Try to get some sleep."

Sleep. Right.

"Hey," I whispered after a minute. I knew he wasn't deeply asleep yet because he hadn't started snoring. "What are you doing for Christmas?"

Ben grumbled against my shoulder, something about ridiculous questions. "Going to the rez to spend Christmas with Hannah, just like I do every year."

"Oh," I breathed. _Compartmentalize. Do not let him see that this means anything._ "Right, I forgot." I thought for a few seconds, hoping to sound like I was just curious. "What do you usually do with Hannah?"

"Typical Christmas stuff," Ben replied. "Songs, stories, cookies. Just the three of us on Christmas Eve, I crash on the couch, and then Laura's parents and a few of my relatives come over the next day to open gifts, or we go to one of their houses. Hannah never gets any real family time with both parents except for special occasions, so Laura and I try to make things feel as normal as possible for her."

"That's really great," I replied, infusing a bit of enthusiasm in my response. It really _did_ sound like fun, and I would never want to take that sense of family away from him. "My parents never did anything like that for me when I was a kid. I'm sure she's looking forward to it."

"Uh-huh. What about you?" he asked, half-asleep but still polite. "Coming back to Forks?"

"I, uh…" Why was this so hard? "I think I'll be staying in Vancouver this year. I can't really afford the gas to make this road trip again, you know? Renee's not an option either, so I decided to just stay put." Shut up, Bella; stop babbling.

"Oh, right," Ben remarked, sounding slightly awkward. That was all he said.

And I understood.

_You'll always be last._

"I was thinking," I said in a small voice, "that maybe I'll spend Christmas with Brown and Marty. If they don't go out of town, I mean."

"That sounds nice," he yawned.

"Yeah." I trained my eyes on the night-grey ceiling again and kept my voice toneless. I couldn't be angry with Ben over this silly wish of mine. Family came first, and I wasn't family. I was just his girlfriend, and I had no business intruding and making everyone feel uncomfortable. _This is me, not clinging._ "Marty loves my Gran Marie's homemade chocolate custard pie."

"Get some rest," he mumbled, rubbing his thumb on my shirt. "Wake me up if you need another pill or anything at all."

After a few minutes Ben started snoring again. I lifted my hand off his and pushed my hair away from my forehead, staring at the window for another twenty minutes. It was pointless. Stupid.

Frustrated, I gently shoved Ben's arm off me and sat up again, swinging my legs off the bed and grabbing my crutches. My arms had grown stronger, I thought, slipping them through the forearm braces as I stood and grasped the handles. Thumping the rubber-tipped crutches on the hardwood floor as quietly as possible, I made my way past the jacket and chair and window, through the bedroom door, down the hall and into the bathroom.

Sue had redone this room as well, mostly just in terms of general cleanliness, some paint, and a bath mat on the floor. She also installed a full length mirror behind the door. Leaning against the sink and setting my crutches aside, I lifted my sleep shirt off my body and slung it over a towel bar. As carefully as I knew how, I balanced my weight on my good leg and stared at my tattooed body in the mirror.

Raven looked back at me from my right breast, reminding me who I was. Not the mousy girl with two ridiculous parents anymore, but a woman of knowledge with a proud and ancient family history. The sink served as a handrail as I twisted around; the tribal Harley tattoo on my shoulder reminded me what I could do, what I had learned about myself, and that, injury notwithstanding, I was free upon this earth, not bound to any place or thing or person unless I so chose.

Tattoos were painful and bloody and took a lot out of me, but there was a certain amount of satisfaction and accomplishment that came with such hardships. No one could take that hurt from me, feel it in my stead, or make it easier or better. Analgesics and alcohol were out of the question, since they thinned the blood and only made the bleeding more profuse. When I wanted ink, I endured the process strictly under my own strength and pain tolerance. My vulnerability was on full display, but so was my power.

I lovingly traced the empty stretch of skin under the opposite shoulder, from waist to shoulder blade, thinking of the tattoo I wanted there. My accident had interrupted my money-saving process, but someday, maybe after I was done with university, a grand symbol would cover me: _Hiilanga,_ the Thunderbird, intelligent and powerful, sometimes guardian, sometimes wrathful, ever watchful. This I wanted, to show the world—to show myself—that I was inferior to no one.

With a smile, I pulled my shirt back on.

* * *

Footnotes:

WEXES: (SENĆOŦEN) Frog

HÁ,E.: Yes

_Aan dang k'yaaw g̱a hll ḵ'aawuu g̱as ga. _(Haida) I will sit here and wait for you.

U TW̱ HE,HO,I SEN OL. YOŦ SEN OL U HE,HO,I. (SENĆOŦEN) I'm just alone now. I'm always alone.

_Diez, nueve, ocho…:_ (Spanish) Ten, nine, eight…

_Huu tll guu giidang. _(Haida) That's how it is.

_Hiilanga:_ (Haida) Thunderbird

_**Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. All recognizable characters and song lyrics are the property of their respective copyright owners. Portions of Stephenie Meyer's original work are reprinted, but no copyright violation is intended. References to real places and groups are used fictitiously, and certain elements of history are ignored. This story is in no way meant to reflect actual criminal events or territorial claims of gangs or motorcycle clubs in Vancouver or any other location.**_


	9. 8 2012

**Warning: This chapter contains racial slurs. Apologies in advance, but at the same time, racism isn't dead yet in the real world.**

February 2012

Marty's Garage

Vancouver, BC

"Bella, you have to get back on sometime."

Marty and I were putting the finishing touches on the repairs to my bike, and it felt so good working in her garage again. My bike had spent the last six months in here without me. The damage from the accident was minor, but I did have to save up and pay all my other bills before I could work on it. Fortunately I was advancing in the financial aid office and I was actually good at being a graduate T.A., which supplemented my income . Enough to replace my pipes, at any rate.

"I don't know," I hedged, making a final twist of my ratchet. She'd been alluding to this for two months, but today she switched to confronting me directly. "The doctor only just cleared me to ride. Maybe I should wait longer, just in case."

"That's bullshit," Marty said calmly, as if she were announcing the weather. "Cleared is cleared. You've been walking around for months—you don't even need your crutches, and you can carry a tray just fine. You drive your car all the time. This is no different."

"I beg your pardon," I protested, even as I double checked the tightness of all the nuts and bolts, "but it most certainly is different. It requires balance and coordination—"

"None of which you had when you first learned to ride on my bike," Marty reminded me. "It requires risk. You're scared."

"No I'm not," I answered automatically. Weak women were scared, and I was _not_ weak.

"Nervous, then," Marty corrected. "Anxious. Call it whatever you want, but don't think you can fool me."

"Isn't it normal for me to feel that way?" I argued, hating that she was right. "Nobody crashed into me. It was my own fault for not being careful. A little…trepidation is natural."

"True enough," Marty conceded, ignoring my five-dollar word. "You overcorrected on a turn—it's a common mistake. But even if someone else was at fault, the issue would be the same. You've always been one of the bravest girls I've ever seen. Why are you working so hard to salvage this bike if you aren't going to get back on?"

"I…what if it happens again?" With a sigh, I slid my hand over the exhaust pipe, wondering if the same kind of metal was inside my ankle. "It took me so long to recover, so much work. I don't want to go through it over and over and over."

"You're hesitating because of the healing process? That's your big excuse? Bella, you're being ridiculous." Marty sounded completely exasperated with me. "Accidents are to be expected when you own a bike. Stupid fuck-ups are part of life. Getting injured is part of life, too, and it's absolutely going to happen again and again, whether it's on wheels or on foot. But I've seen your face when you're on that bike, and I'm telling you, that's where you belong. We can install new safety features if it makes you feel better, but you can't go through your whole life hiding from the things that make you happy because you got hurt."

"That's what my dad says," I said softly, thinking not of bronze hair, but of black hair and warm olive skin.

"Well you should quit being so hard-headed and listen to him more often." Marty finished up on her side of the bike and stood up slowly. She knew me well, better than my mother; she backed off instead of pushing me any further. "By the way, Ben's asking about Valentine's Day. Got any hints you want me to throw his way? New jacket, maybe? That one looks like hell."

"I keep telling him he doesn't need to get me anything," I groaned, picking up my tools. "Obligatory gifts don't mean anything."

"I've known that man a long time," Marty replied, dusting off her clothes. "He doesn't do things for a woman because he feels obligated."

"Tell him…" I began, but stopped. I stood up and drank in the sight of my bike, fingering the leather seat, stroking the handlebars. Carefully, I climbed onto my bike, only wincing slightly as I put pressure on my left leg. "The insurance company said my helmet expired when I crashed. I need a new one."

Marty grinned at me, understanding. I borrowed her helmet and fired up my bike for a test run, feeling the rumble course through my body. It was like making up with my best friend.

* * *

July 2012

The Chatterbox

Vancouver, BC

When I moved to Vancouver hoping to have new adventures, this really wasn't what I had in mind.

"Please," I sighed tiredly, knowing I wouldn't be heard, "don't do this, Ben."

He ignored my plea of course, and squared his shoulders, meeting the redneck's eyes as we stood in the drizzling rain of the parking lot. "Don't worry, Bella, I'll be fine."

"I _know_ that," I groaned. I had yet to see a brawl from which Ben didn't emerge on his own two feet. "It's just so damn _stupid._"

"That's right, bitch!" Physically, Ben's opponent wasn't all that impressive, at least not compared to Ben himself, but he seemed to think what he lacked in stature, he made up for by wearing his colors and shouting obscenities. "Tell Squanto how stupid it is to fuck with me!" The profanity went on in this vein, but I didn't respond. If he thought swearing was going to intimidate me, he was sorely mistaken—Rosalie was ten times scarier without saying a word.

Truthfully, Ben had every right to be furious. It wasn't enough that the asshole yowling at us had to be a Hells Angel (from a _nomad_ chapter, no less, though I was the only one who found that word significant) who thought he was God's ultimate biker. It wasn't enough that he'd been reaching for my ass most of the night, despite my repeated attempts to shift out of the way and indicate I was someone else's old lady. His type regarded women as property, and I'd hoped believing I "belonged" to someone else would clear things up. But the minute his Deep South, KKK-loving ass saw me kissing _Ben_, he had to start talking shit about "spics and Injuns" (evidently he couldn't tell one kind of brown person from another) and how I "betrayed my kind" and a lot of other bullshit that just didn't fly around here. It didn't take long for them to escalate from "go fuck yourself" to "let's step outside."

This crap right here was why I preferred having Bandidos in my bar over Angels—Bandidos, who were after all a Texas-originated club, might be criminals and dickheads sometimes, but at least they were more ethnically diverse. Fortunately the three Bandidos in the bar tonight were not as drunk as the Angel, and despite the fact that they were natural enemies, Black Joe and his "brothers" seemed more inclined to stay out of the impending fray. For now.

I appealed to Brown with my eyes—surely I was not the only one to see this could bring problems for us if this asshole took it upon himself to bring more Hells Angels here and start a goddamn turf war over a bar that wasn't technically claimed—but it seemed all the men had gone caveman stupid on me. God, I hated this territorial, possessive crap. Grown men acting like juvenile delinquents—no, worse: like animals battling for hunting grounds and mating rights. I had my fill of that when I was seventeen, _thank you very much._ Squinting at tonight's prime assclown (who was currently inventing new racial slurs, most of which included a word I'd never repeat) I noticed the newish, poor quality tats on his arm. _Ah, of course._

Brown ordered me inside to mind the till, knowing full well it was better that I not be allowed to witness anything. I paused, pressed my forehead to Ben's arm, and said in a loud, clear voice, "HELIT TŦE SWÍḴE."

"What the hell was that, you trashy little two-bit whore?" the drunken jackass yelled, waving his arms around for no discernible reason. Seriously, was that supposed to be frightening? If he was actually as much of a badass as he was pretending to be, he would have starting swinging by now. Typical loudmouth.

"Our language," Ben growled, answering for me. He certainly caught on quick. "She asked me to spare your life."

The redneck paused and peered at me curiously. "Thought you were white."

"Most foreigners do," I shrugged. After looking carefully at his mud-streaked bike glistening under the streetlights, I pressed my hand against Ben's back and turned away to the door. I wanted to call out _good luck_ or _be careful_ over my shoulder, but those things would only serve to bolster the other guy's confidence and undermine Ben's, so I kept silent and did as I was told. Not everyone had gone outside, and someone had to "mind the till." I waited until I heard the first few shouts of excitement, then lifted the cordless phone from its charger.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"Fight at the Chatterbox. Some American gang member is assaulting one of our customers." I didn't actually hate my country of origin, but these situations seemed to work out better when my immigration status didn't figure into the equation. "Send cops; he's going to run when he hears you coming. He's riding a '97 Harley Electra Glide Standard, Alabama license plate MBM454."

"Can you give me the address with cross streets?"

Seven minutes later I was wiping down an empty table by the window, trying desperately to see through the dark-tinted glass, when I heard the approaching sirens. Everyone not involved in the fight hurried inside and started ordering beers, but Brown stayed outside with Ben. Sure enough, one engine growled and took flight. The work passed quickly while the cops did their thing—they sent two units this time, and eventually word came back that the suspect had been apprehended when he crashed his bike and landed in an empty lot. VPD wanted my statement, of course. Aside from a detailed description of the assailant, I gave our standard story: drunken asshole tourist became belligerent with customers (cops liked that, word, _belligerent—_it looked good in their reports), my boss made him take it outside, I took down the license plate info but was too busy calling the cops to see who threw the first punch. Same shit, different day. Brown instituted a 24-hour reentry ban against the guy, just in case.

After the police had gone, Ben sat at a work table in the back room while I pressed a towel full of ice over his knuckles and rummaged through my old, army-green metal box with a red cross on the lid. Actually, it was once Carlisle's first aid kit specifically for me; he'd even carved my name on it, probably with his fingernail. I made a habit of replenishing expired supplies over the years.

"This shit's getting old," I grumbled tiredly, wiping the blood away. The smell wasn't strong enough to bother me this time, inundated as the building was with tobacco smoke, but the alkaline scent was there. "Fourth bar fight we've had this summer, and it's only July. Somebody puts testosterone in the water, I swear." Somewhere in the back of my mind, a part of me whispered that I was still attracting danger like a magnet. I told that part to shut its supernatural-theory-loving piehole—the combination of alcohol and aggression was not an unprecedented phenomenon. "Next time the cops aren't going to believe me when I blame the other guy. I can't tell you how much I wish you'd just stayed in your seat."

"You honestly expected me _not_ to retaliate?" Ben growled, still angry. "Did you even _hear _what that bastard said about us?"

"Of course I did. And I'd be lying if I said it didn't upset me." We had that philosophical conversation before, determining that when a white person hears a racial slur directed at someone else, it just sounds like a very rude word, but to the person on the receiving end, it's an actual punch in the face. In spite of all my studies, my feelings, and the acceptance I felt from the tribes I loved so well, the fact was I was still born white, and while that man's ugly words hurt and angered me, it was far worse for Ben. I shook my head in disgust, trying to erase the specific memory, and pulled out a bottle of antiseptic spray. "But you didn't have to let it turn it into a fist fight just because that small-minded idiot ran his mouth."

"He was doing a lot more than just running his mouth," Ben started. "If I hadn't been here—"

"If you'd been away on a job," I interrupted, spraying the Bactine on his injured knuckles, "I would have just claimed Brown was my dad. This is my fifth summer doing this; I know how it works by now." I set the antiseptic down on the table and lightly blew air on the lacerations, the action ingrained from years of childhood scrapes. "What happens if _you _get arrested next time? How do I explain to Laura that Hannah can't come up for the weekend because her dad's in jail? Or, heaven forbid, in the fucking hospital?"

Ben looked away for a moment, chagrined but not repentant. "You didn't have to call the cops," he pointed out. "You didn't the last time."

"Yeah, well, last time was different. Last time it was just two idiots arguing over a pool hustle. Last time it wasn't _you _out there against an Angel, even if he was just a Prospect." Logically, I knew that not every Hells Angel was a criminal, but the fact that membership criteria included _has never applied to become a police officer or prison guard_ was not comforting, and I wasn't sure if starting this fight was part of some initiation rite for a prospective member. If he just wanted to drink and spout neo-Nazi crap, the Vancouver Angels had their own clubhouse in town and another in Kelowna. I sighed, wishing I could erase the whole night. "At least he's gone now, and he won't be back." Touching Ben's knuckles carefully, I guessed that he had at least one fracture. "You should have this hand x-rayed."

"We can go see the doctor in the morning," Ben said hurriedly. "How do you know he won't be back when they let him out?"

Wrapping some gauze around Ben's hand, I formed a splint with a tongue depressor that would keep the injured knuckle straight, at least for a while, and placed the ice on his hand again. I stayed calm and spoke in a slow, unaffected tone. "He's going to be extradited."

Ben blinked at me. "But how do you _know_ that?"

With a second wet bar rag, I wiped carefully at the trickle of blood that had dried near Ben's nostril and gently checked his nose for breakage. Glancing around us quickly to check for eavesdroppers listening at the crack in the door, I whispered quickly. "While you two were having your dick-measuring competition, I spotted new prison tattoos on his arm. He did time in the state pen within the last year. It's a parole violation for him to leave that state, let alone the US. That means he crossed the border with a fake ID. I also got his license plate number, which I'm fairly sure will give the cops a place to start looking for his real name even if they can't check his fingerprints against the American system. Regardless of that, VPD will suspect him of drug trafficking because he's an Angel, and Canadian Intelligence will detain him on principle. Even if they just deport him, he can't come back to Canada without getting stopped."

For a moment, there was only background noise, the sound of beer bottles clinking, someone racking up the balls at the pool table, Muddy Waters howling _baby, I wants to be loved._

"_If_ he gets sent back to the slammer," Ben qualified at last, though he looked impressed. "_If_ he doesn't come back riding with someone else or on a different bike, with a new fake ID."

"_If_ you were worried about him returning, either alone or with others," I said pointedly, pressing the cool towel against a blackening eye, "you should have thought of that before you let him get under your skin. Usually you _think_ before you get into something, Ben. This isn't the Middle Ages. You don't have to duel anyone and everyone who challenges you. Did you have too much to drink tonight, or did your brain just quit on you?"

"I wasn't thinking of that," Ben admitted. "I was just so sick of him fucking with you—"

"Don't," I cut him off harshly, pulling the towel away from his face. He had a small cut near the left temple. "People try to grab my butt all the time and you manage to keep your cool. That fight was not about me; it was about _you_. I'm not saying he didn't deserve to have his ass handed to him, but don't try to justify it to me by saying you were defending my honor or some inane thing like that. It's not true, and even if it were, it still looked like two assholes fighting over a toy, and I will not have that in my life again. It isn't romantic or noble; it's a pissing contest, and it's childish. Not a good enough reason to rip someone into pieces and incinerate the carcass."

"Interesting image," he muttered, evidently too caught up on my comment about mutilated corpses to notice the _again_. He tried not to wince as I cleaned the cut with an alcohol swab and quickly applied ointment and a small bandage. "I wasn't planning to kill the bastard. Just kick his ass."

Unimpressed, I grasped his chin and turned his face so I could check the side of his other eye. "It used to turn me on to imagine you as a warrior, but I think it's safe to say that the novelty has worn off. You got all banged up for nothing." Yes, another cut along his eyebrow, and this one might need stitches. Damn it. "Did you at least give as good as you got?"

"Better," he smirked as I continued patching him up as best I could. "The SENĆOŦEN was a nice touch, by the way. He was just drunk enough to believe you. Once he started to doubt whether you were actually white, he got distracted. Made things easier for me."

"You fight your way," I commented blandly, "and I'll fight mine." Standing up and peeking out the door again, I hazarded a glance at Brown, who looked worse for wear. "Next time, don't let it go so far, okay? Brown is getting a little too old and sick to put up with this shit, even if he does have a soft spot for me. You can't just overreact when stuff like this happens. I need you to trust that I can take care of myself."

"This guy wasn't a rub, Bella," Ben argued quietly as I returned to his side and lifted the make-shift ice pack to check his hand for further swelling. "He didn't have a cushy job at home and a shit-ton of nice things he stood to lose if he got into trouble. I know you don't scare easily, but if you'd smarted off to him and I wasn't here—"

"I didn't, and you know it," I interrupted. I was intelligent enough not to backtalk a man with outlaw patches on his vest, whether he was a Full-Patch Angel or not.

"—he would have thought nothing of beating you to death, or worse," Ben finished.

Resisting the impulse to shrug in answer, I led Ben out of the stockroom and back up to his bar stool. Let him think he had the last word. The white moon scar on my hand glistened under the mix of incandescent and neon lights. My world of Harleys and bikers was darker than the world of university classes and dorms, but I'd known harsher realities than the one I currently immersed myself in. If Ben knew how many times I'd nearly died, to say nothing of _how_, he'd lose his ever-loving mind. Death and Violence were not just threatening concepts; they were signatures in my high school yearbook. I wasn't in a rush to have a reunion, but I was too jaded to fear the possibility, either.

"Brown, you know I love this place, and I would do anything for you," I bracingly said later as we took inventory. I hated to think of myself as outgrowing the Chatterbox, because I really did feel comfortable spending my free time here with the people I knew. "But the thing is: I didn't go to school all these years to become a career barmaid. I won't leave you in the lurch, but after what went down tonight, I think this is going to have to be my last year doing this. I start back at my campus job in September, and it might be best if I do that full time, or maybe look for something else that's less…hazardous." At nearly twenty-five years of age, it was high time I engaged in something more professional anyway, preferably in my own academic department, research or teaching.

"I wasn't the one starting shit, Bella," Brown reminded me, rubbing his pasty face with his hands as he tried to stay alert. "I sent you in to make the call, but there's only so much I can do." _Mind the till_ was code for _call the police,_ whereas _watch the register_ meant _no cops._ A third code, _cover the cashbox,_ meant that I should seek cover immediately, or leave altogether. "Ben can't jump up and start throwing punches whenever he wants, but I don't blame him for losing his shit. A man can't just stand by and let some white-trash pig-fucker grab on his old lady and call him a timber nigger!"

"Shut up!" I hissed, glancing through the stockroom door at Ben, who sat at the counter waiting to escort me back home. I shut the door quietly. God, if Ben heard Brown repeating that phrase, even though he didn't mean it, we'd have even more trouble. It was bad enough hearing it from a stranger. In a lower voice, I replied, "Ben was just the easiest target. You and I both know that hillbilly was itching for a fight with anyone he could get a rise out of. He should have been tossed out of here earlier—if he'd gotten hostile with Black Joe's Bandido crew, it would have turned into a goddamn free-for-all. I can't magically mend broken bones and internal bleeding."

"What do you think would have happened if I kicked out a Hells Angel without cause but let the Bandidos stay?" Brown said gravely, meeting my eyes. "Be glad things turned out as well as they did."

"_Be glad?_" I repeated incredulously. "The whole damn thing could have been prevented if you'd taken action sooner, cut him off for being too drunk, _something_. You know better than to let that kind of shit go on so long without intervening, so don't think I'm letting you get away with passing the buck. I hate to tell you how to run your business, but you need to hire a bouncer already, because this can't go on. I signed on to make money for school, not to get caught up in other people's macho bullshit drama. I'm a month away from submitting my thesis, and I've worked too hard for too long to let it all get fucked up now. I sure as hell don't want Ben getting hurt anymore. Either you fix the problem or I'll just have to find another job immediately, because I do _not_ need this kind of anxiety. And quite frankly, neither do you."

Brown coughed and nodded, growing quiet as we moved through the building and finished our work. We stood together at the bar counting our money while Ben obligingly moved away, half-heartedly shooting a free game of pool. I kept silent, listening to the _crack_ of the cue ball, the _clink clink_ of coins, and the_ slap slap slap_ of bills as I added up my tip money and made mental calculations. "I can share fifteen percent of my tips if you hire a bouncer," I offered. I'd be living on peanut butter and ramen noodles for a while to prevent the income drop from cutting into my savings goal, but if that's what it took to prevent my old man from getting into scrapes on my behalf, so be it.

"Keep your tips," Brown sighed. "Marty will skin me alive if I make you give up your pay to meet my responsibility. I'll hire someone." After another minute, he added, "My son Danny is moving to Vancouver soon and starting at UBC in the fall. He turns nineteen in January, and he'll be needing work. If you can hold on that long, he can come in and take your place."

"Sounds good." Without looking at him, I said what I knew we were both thinking. "You'll have fewer fights if you don't have to worry about watching out for me anymore."

"Honey," Brown snapped, "I'm always going to protect you whether you work for me or not. I've just been doing a shitty job of it lately."

"Between you and me," I muttered, mostly to myself, "I've had _way _worse guardians."

* * *

November 2012

Flight 874

Vancouver, BC to Honolulu, Hawai'i

I sat in a tiny seat by the window, watching the way the sunset painted the Pacific, sky and sea melting together in a brilliant orange-pink, highlighted with purple red clouds in the north as my plane flew southwest to my first stop on my adventure. My _real_ adventure.

In an effort to broaden my horizons, and in the hopes of finding new linguistic teaching practices to benefit the local tribes around me, I spent the previous two years studying Polynesian languages and customs—it was, in fact, the subject of my Master's thesis. My primary project this year was participation in a cross-cultural analysis of tattoo artistry, evaluating the religious, social, and linguistic facets and the similarities of traditional tattoo tools, methods, and mechanics among various cultures on both sides of the Pacific. As such I was given the opportunity—as well as, to my surprise, the funding—to take a tour of the Polynesian islands and observe and record as much of the process as I was allowed, to take samples of inks and possibly even obtain my own instruments of_ tatau_ and _ta moko_ for comparison against Japanese, North American, and South American native tattoo kits acquired by the other team members of our study.

I knew I needed to rest before my arrival, but I just wanted to wait until the sun was down before I tried to sleep. When the sky was a deep violet, I gladly shifted in my seat and made myself comfortable with the tiny pillow and ugly blue woolen blanket. Fortunately the two seats next to me were empty, so I was free to stretch out a little as needed. I shut my eyes and lost myself in thinking about the scene I'd left behind at the Vancouver International Airport.

"_Mmm," Ben hummed, "I'll miss you, Bella."_

"_Ben, stop," I giggled, swatting playfully at his arm in an attempt to detach him from my neck. "Hannah's fifteen feet away."_

_Newly ten-year-old Hannah had already given me a quick goodbye hug and asked me to find her two things: a pen pal and a fist-sized rock from a volcano. At the moment she was studiously staring out a nearby window, watching the jets take off. Though by now she was accustomed to seeing her father kiss me, we were always careful about the amount of enthusiasm we displayed in her presence, knowing her emotional position was a fragile one. Her well-being was more important than a romantic scene. That made Ben's current exuberance an issue, though I appreciated the sentiment all the same._

_Ben looked over his shoulder at his daughter before he continued. "I can't help it," he whispered, his arms wrapping all the way around me under my jacket so that his fingers could just graze the sides of my breasts. "You're just so damn sexy, and you're going away for three whole weeks…"_

I felt myself moaning in my sleep, dreaming about the long, sweaty encounter we shared a few nights ago, hot breath and slippery tongues, teeth nibbling at my collarbone and working me over mercilessly, the intensely erotic biting and gentle pinching he lavished on my nipples and especially my breast tattoo, how wild it drove him when I clawed at his skin, the sound of his groans when I wrapped my hands around him and stroked, the feeling of being pounded into the mattress with reckless abandon as he buried himself in me, thick and hot and driving into me harder and harder, just the way I liked it, fuck, fuck, _fuck_…

I woke with a start when I felt someone jog my good foot, but there was no one sitting or standing near me. There was only myself, curled up in two seats, the third seat still empty. I checked my watch, confused about the time. I knew my flight was supposed to take about six hours, but I was still groggy and unsure what time it would be when I arrived and what time my body would think it was, whether there was a Daylight savings time involved…ugh. I needed sleep. Whoever woke me up needed a foot up their ass. Preferably the foot with the metal plates that made going through airport security take six times longer than ever. _That's right, I'm looking at you, old man across the aisle pretending to be asleep._

"Asshole," I muttered, wondering again why nighttime flights weren't cheaper. East Canadian philanthropist or not, I had to charge these tickets to my credit card and get reimbursed from Mr. Jörn's donation fund later. For the unseemly amount of money I paid, I should have been able to get some uninterrupted sleep on an overnight oceanic flight.

I fluffed my pillow and tried to get back to what had been a very promising dream.

* * *

November 2012

1848 Princess Tui Inn

Apia, Upolu, Samoa

"What the hell is wrong with you, Ben?" I shouted into the phone. "How much have you had to drink?"

I knew I should have called Charlie first. Here I was, in a B&B/hostel on the other side of the goddamn _world_, having spent all week in the middle of a torrential downpour because it was the beginning of the rainy season in this country, _of course_, and Ben was sitting in his little house, warm and drunk and garbling his words, wasting my international calling card minutes to instigate an argument with me over some stupid shit. I didn't even know what he was pissed off about.

"There's nothing wrong with me, Bella. I'd just like to know who the hell Edward is, that's all."

My blood froze solid in my veins.

"Edward?" I whispered. How did he know that name? I hadn't told _anyone_ that name. I hadn't spoken it aloud in six years, even when I was intoxicated. God, I hadn't been saying it in my sleep, had I? Had Edward actually…?

"Your jacket," Ben growled, somehow deflating me. "The one you've been wearing for years and won't replace. You left it with me at the airport, remember? I looked inside and found the name tag on the lining. So are you gonna tell me who the fuck Edward is?"

My nostrils flared. "My jacket?" I hissed. "That's what this is about? You're mad about a name sewn into my old jacket that I've had since before I met you?"

"I'm not mad about a jacket, I'm mad about a _person_."

"Oh, right, that's _so_ much better," I scowled. "Because before you, no other men existed in my universe."

"Answer the goddamn question, Bella."

I groaned in agitation. "I stole that jacket, Ben. I was fresh out of high school, cold and poor and coming to a new country with all my possessions fitting into one car. The rich bastard left his expensive coat behind, and I stole it. Is that what you want to hear? Does that make you happy?"

Ben sighed. "Yeah, a little. But why didn't you say so before?"

"Because I shouldn't have to," I said in a stone voice. "You have no reason, and more importantly, no _right_ to be angry about anyone who was in my life before you. Are you going to tell me the name, rank, and serial number of every woman you've ever fucked in the last fifteen years? No, you're not. And I never asked. All I've ever asked about your history is how many partners you've had, whether you used protection, and if you or any of them contracted any diseases. I have _never_ asked you anything private about anyone but your ex-wife, and only because Laura still has to be part of your life. You don't have a right to my past, Ben. It's none of your goddamned business."

"I'm not asking what your old boyfriend liked for dinner," Ben snapped. _North American cougars. Serial killers. Me._ "I know I'm not the first man you ever met, and I know you got burned. I want to know if you're still seeing the guy, or carrying a torch, or whatever it is that gives you that painful look in your eyes when you drink too much."

"'Seeing the guy?' You don't trust me now?" I asked. "You think I'm sleeping around? Tell me, please, when would I have time for that? I work on my own vehicles, I hold down an office job _and_ teach undergrad classes _and_ still wait tables when Brown needs me, I have to work at the university research facility for _free_, and I'm pursuing a Ph-fucking-D. I barely have time to see _you_."

"That's not what I mean, Bella."

"Oh no? What else could you possibly mean?" I snarled.

"I'm asking if you're still in love with him."

I wasn't letting that hypocrisy go. "You mean like you still love Laura?"

Ben scoffed at me. "That's different and you know it. Laura was my _wife_, and we have a kid together. Pregnant or not, I wouldn't have married her if I didn't love her. I thought we were talking about your bullshit high school romance here. Unless there's more to it than that."

There was no flying palm, but the sting of a slap to the face was real.

"I haven't seen him since I turned eighteen," I said coldly, "when he not only broke my heart, but he left me alone in the fucking _forest_. He has not visited, called, or written to me in seven years, not even to see if I made it out of the woods alive. Does that answer your question?"

He heaved a tired sigh, or maybe it was relieved or even horrified; I was too furious to care. "You want to know why I get so depressed sometimes? You should have asked me about it, and maybe I would have told you. But don't you dare accuse me of anything, especially not because I've been wearing the same jacket since you met me. That's complete and utter horseshit. You spend the night at Laura's _house_ every Christmas, but you don't see me pitching a hissy fit about it."

"Bella, I—"

"No, fuck this!" I shouted. "I am in the middle of _Samoa_, doing what I've always wanted to do, and you start shit with me from across the ocean over your insecurity? I'm not that girl, Ben, the one who thinks that's cute, or endearing, or some kind of proof that you _really_ care. If you're unhappy with me, or if you're worried about Hannah getting too attached, hell, if you want to go back to Laura, just say so and end it now instead of making up reasons to break it off. You and I never made each other any promises. If you don't want me, I'll be fine on my own!"

"No! That's not what I want," he slurred in response.

"You're too drunk to know what you want," I snapped at him. "I can't talk to you about this anymore."

"I'm sorry Bella, okay? I'm sorry I acted like such a dumbass. I just…I don't wanna lose you."

"You have a strange way of showing it." And then, because I didn't know how else to respond to his declaration, I lied. "I need to go. My ride is here, and this is my only chance to see someone receive the _pe'a_ with my own eyes." I glanced at my watch. "And you've used up nearly all my calling card minutes, so I guess I'll talk to you when I get back to Vancouver."

"Bella, wait—"

"I gotta go. Bye, Ben."

Hanging up the phone quickly, I switched off the small bedside lamp and turned on the oscillating fan, not even bothering to change out of my clothes. It was night here, over two hours past the conclusion of citywide evening prayer and only three hours behind Vancouver, but Ben probably had no idea what time zone I was in. Hiding behind the gauzy white of my mosquito net, I curled up in my bed and tried not to think or feel.

_I'll be just fine all by myself. I am an educated, self-sufficient woman. I don't need anyone. I'll be fine on my own._

I knew the best way to take my mind off the argument was to walk out of this room and hit the bar, but I promised myself I wouldn't do that. I needed to have my mind sharp for this trip, and I couldn't accomplish anything while drunk or hung over. Did they even _have_ whiskey in Samoa?

_I'll be fine on my own._

Instead, I listened as the rain slowed and mentally ran over the things I saw today—I'd wanted to see Samoan _tatau_ artistry up close for years, since my days as a museum tour guide. But it was…difficult, watching the pain in the young man's face as he bore the unceasing bite of the sharp combs the _tufuga_ (tattoo artist) used to ink in the black. The subject was undergoing the fourth stage of _pe'a_ completion: the _Taga o Fusi ma Ulumanu_, which consisted of having the tattoo combs pounded into his skin from the center of his thighs to his inner groin, the triangular _fusi_ ribbons tattooed on him from his perineum to the back of his knees. Just above the knees each _ulumanu_ was inked in, resembling elaborate cuffs as wide as my hand. And in between the intricate patterns, there were large sections of solid black that seemed to take hours to fill in.

_I'll be fine on my own._

It surprised me that the subject allowed me to watch, with the most intimate parts of his body on full display, but the expression on his face said quite clearly that he did not care about anything I saw or felt or said or did. The tap-tap-tapping of the _sausau_ mallet against the different tools seemed to grow louder and slower with every passing moment, almost mocking the young man who was trying desperately to restrain his grunts of pain. I tried valiantly to hide my cringe against the screams as the wounds were bathed in alcohol.

_I'll be fine on my own._

One of the _ausolo_ who was assisting explained to me that in these modern times, more attention was paid to the risk of infection. Traditional bone instruments were still preferred over the Tahitian-style metal needles, but anyone receiving a _pe'a_ was asked to stay on a course of antibiotics and would have to massage their tattoo and take cold showers every few hours, day and night. The saddest part, to me at least, was that this was not even the most painful part of the procedure. In another week, after the swelling went down, the young man would undergo the final stage, the _'Umaga_—it was widely believed that the tattooing of navel and abdomen was the most excruciating part of the process.

_I'll be fine on my own._

The subject was not without comfort, however. In keeping with tradition, several young women wearing sarongs just like mine sat with him—on him, really—to hold him down so that he would not move and cause himself harm or ruin the lines of his tattoo, but also to offer their comforting presence, massage his head, and sing songs. Because my Samoan language skills were not quite as developed as I wanted, I asked for a translation, and one of the women—whose own lace-like but less elaborate tattoos, called _malu_, climbed her legs from her knees to the midpoint of her thighs—obliged me. Part of her song stuck in my mind long after I left them, slipping across my consciousness in the dark.

_Ah, if it were a burden  
__I would carry it for you in my love.  
__O be quiet and give in,  
__I will withdraw when the blows have fallen…_

No matter how I tried, I couldn't stop my tears anymore. I remembered, in that moment, in that net-covered bed, another comforting presence and another lilting song, one without words, one that had poisoned me with its love, promising me a level of devotion I'd never known before or since. A solemn vow unrealized, an assurance that I would never have to be lonely again, the beautiful lie I'd foolishly given myself to with all my heart. My sobbing eventually subsided, my swollen eyes closed, and the warm, exotically perfumed jungle outside my open window became a sparkling meadow and then a cold, wet forest that wrapped its smothering loneliness around me. At that instant I would have gratefully traded places with the young Samoan man who was surely still groaning in agony as his wounds were tended with loving care.

…_if I can do it, if leaving is the right thing to do, then I'll hurt myself to keep from hurting you…_

That's the most idiotic thing you've ever said. Look at what you've done to me, to my life.

_Oh, Bella. I'm so sorry._

Who cares if you're sorry, Edward? What difference does it make?

* * *

December 2012

Vancouver International Airport

Sea Island, BC

I wasn't sure, as I dozed in my middle seat on the plane, sandwiched between two exceptionally ripe tourists, what to expect when I landed. Ben hadn't sounded so drunk on the phone that I could reasonably expect him to forget that we fought, but I wasn't certain how much he might remember, or if he thought we actually broke up. _Had_ we broken up?

It was true that Ben and I never promised each other anything. I wasn't that person anymore, the naïve girl who demanded eternity or even believed in it. "Always" was not part of my romantic vocabulary, and I did not take for granted that it would be part of anyone else's either, particularly not a man who was divorced and whose only "always" was rightfully reserved for his child. Hannah was the joy of his life, the only person besides me (and, presumably, his ex-wife) for whom he dropped his guard. Perhaps it was best for Hannah if Ben and I didn't see each other anymore. She and I got along, and I enjoyed my time with her, but she was not my daughter, and I wasn't trying to insert myself into her mother's role. Charlie never put me through anything like that, but Renee became too lax about emotional limits on occasion, and I got hurt once or twice before I was old enough to realize that I didn't have to like her boyfriends. I was nine or ten at the time, coming to the realization a little younger than most of the girls I knew who lived in single-parent homes. Hannah was sharp and had reached that age now, and although it would hurt me, on some level I didn't want to acknowledge, not to see her anymore, I would not allow her heart to break over me. I never made _her_ any guarantees, either, and I didn't want her to infer one that was not there simply by my continued presence. Between my work and studies and her limited visitation with her father, I only saw her once or twice a month. It would not be difficult to phase myself out of her life. Shouldn't be, anyway.

That's what I would tell myself.

Maybe Ben would let me give Hannah her presents first.

After disembarking from the plane and claiming my luggage, I realized Ben was making things easy for me: he simply wasn't there. I caught an airport cab and headed back to my apartment, towing my suitcases tiredly through the crisp, dry December air, glad to see the roads were free of ice, wondering if the _tatau_ combs and _ta moko_ chisels I had shipped to the lab had already been received. If there was any damage, especially to the rare, three-hundred-year-old _ta moko_ equipment loaned to us by the Maori Historical Society in New Zealand, there would be hell to pay.

Traveling always made me thirsty, so I grabbed a bottle of water as soon as I walked in the door and sank into the nearest chair, contemplating what to do about dinner. There weren't any groceries in my kitchen besides garlic cloves and a can of corn. The café downstairs was open, but I wasn't in the mood for mediocre grilled chicken. _Maybe I should order a pizza._

With a sigh, I snatched up my cell phone—I'd left it behind, knowing I wouldn't be able to use it in the South Pacific. There were messages from Charlie and Renee, wishing me well and asking me to call when I got home, and another from Marty asking if I came home with any new tattoos. I hadn't, not because I was unwilling, but because I didn't want to offend anyone by stealing their heritage, something the Maori were particularly sensitive about. Marty also said that the leg guards I ordered for my bike finally arrived and that she'd hang onto them for me; I found myself glad I had the parts delivered to her. She and I could just install them in her garage, and I wouldn't have to worry about needing Ben's help. There was a message from my old friend Sameer, who was providing his forensic expertise for our research team, confirming the arrival of several packages from Christchurch, New Zealand. And there was one voicemail from Ben.

_You're right, we never made promises. I don't feel like we ever can. Not because I wouldn't want to, but because every time you spend the night, I wonder if you'll still be there when I wake up. You're always on the verge of disappearing, like something's pulling you away, even after two and a half years, and I never understood why._

_But I'm not giving you up that easily. It was damn stupid of me to pick a fight with you over a name in a jacket, but I'd have to be a moron of epic proportions to break up over it. I don't care about your old boyfriend. We never have to talk about him again if you don't want to. I want _you_._

_Go look in your closet. Call me whenever you're ready._

He wouldn't have been able to get in without help—Shalice, most likely. She kept an emergency key to my place, and she'd always liked Ben. Extremely curious, I stepped just a little faster than I had energy for and threw open the closet doors.

On the hook inside the left door, neatly draped on a thick plastic hanger, was my suede jacket. It had obviously been cleaned and was tucked into a clear plastic bag. Carefully, I removed it from its cellophane shield and pressed my nose to it. It smelled of a leather shop, meaning Ben had taken it to be cleaned professionally, though not all the stains had come out. Inside the coat I found a tiny tag attached to the lining at a side seam. _Edward A.M.C._ I never noticed it before.

On the right-hand door hook hung a new jacket. Black leather, heavy and warm, made of a thick hide chemically treated to be durable rather than fashionable; perfect for protecting my skin if I had an accident on my bike and skidded across the pavement. The design was simple, with no ornate stitching and no decorative coloration, but the seams were strong and would hold up under strain. It was plain and utilitarian, yet still beautiful. It was just right for me.

I placed my suede jacket inside my closet, stroking the arm once, not affectionately, but with something else I had no name for resonating in my fingertips.

After changing into warmer clothing and my favorite boots, I slid into my new leather jacket and grabbed my cell phone, house keys, helmet, and the key to my bike. Out to the cold, to the engine thunder that would rattle my body, to wherever the road would take me for the remainder of the day. Perhaps I'd wind up at the Chatterbox—as long as I had only one beer, I would still be okay to ride or drive. Maybe I'd just cruise around town and stop somewhere to eat.

Two hours later I stopped at a filling station in Burnaby and checked my phone. One text message flashed at me from Ben, asking if I made it home safely. It could have been a ploy, since I spilled that Edward never checked on me after he left me in the forest, but Ben wasn't a manipulative person. He'd always liked me to check in with him when I traveled, just so he knew I arrived in one piece. A text message back would be a sufficient response.

I stared at my phone for a few seconds before tapping the screen with my fingertips.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Ben."

"Bella." Relief saturated his voice. "You're okay."

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just pumping gas."

"Oh." It came out stilted, if one syllable was capable of carrying that kind of weight. "Headed out?"

"I've just been out riding," I said nonchalantly, removing the nozzle from my tank and screwing the fuel cap back on. "Thank you for the jacket. It's just what I needed."

"You're welcome."

We were both quiet, him with what I perceived to be a certain degree of awkwardness, me with my eyes on the gas pump keypad as I declined a car wash while I struggled for the right words.

"Listen—"

"Could you—"

I chuckled a little, and Ben let me go first. "Listen…we all say or do stupid shit once in a while. People aren't perfect. What matters to me is that you manned up afterward."

Unexpectedly, what I said seemed to bother him—the line was quiet for several seconds. "That's it?"

"Yup." I threw my leg over my bike.

"You're not going to cuss and scream?" He sounded bewildered to the point of near-suspicion. _Ah, of course._ He was thinking of my arguments with Renee, which lasted so long because she couldn't stop making an ass of herself, and associating that with his ex-wife's typical behavior, expecting me to draw the fight out for weeks for maximum leverage.

"I didn't say you were off the hook," I retorted, narrowing my eyes at a passing crotch rocket and its irritating, buzzing bee sounds. "If you like, we can argue non-productively instead of having a rational conversation. But I have to tell you, the jet lag is starting to catch up to me, and I really need some sleep before we do either. I shouldn't have stayed out this long."

"How far are you from my place?"

I glanced at the nearest intersection. "Fifteen minutes, tops."

"Will you come over?" he insisted. "Please?"

When I got to Ben's house, he yanked the front door open before I could pull out my key. We didn't kiss or embrace, nor did we shout or make a big, emotional scene. I looked at Ben, and he looked at me. A cool gust of wind passed across our tired faces as the silence surrounded us.

"Bella, what are you doing for Christmas?"

Confused, I narrowed my eyes at him and furrowed my brow. "Visiting Renee." I didn't understand his expression. He knew about this already, having been present last month when I argued with the airline rep about whether my Polynesian research trip would allow me to accrue enough redeemable frequent flier miles for the ticket to Jacksonville. He even expressed relief when I told him Phil's mother was planning on occupying the guestroom, so I'd have to stay in a hotel where I was less likely to get in another quarrel with my mom. "Why?"

Stepping aside, he motioned for me to enter the house. I set my helmet on the entry table and hung up my new jacket carefully, wishing I'd had the foresight to pack Hannah's gifts in my saddlebags. My brain was so weary, it took a few minutes before I registered the scent of spruce.

"You bought a real tree," I noted with surprise. Normally Ben used a small plastic tree akin to my father's old one, the idea being that he only bothered with it so his daughter would have something easy to decorate when she came up for a December visit. The seven-foot-tall greenery in front of the living room window stood bare, listing to the side just a bit, as though expecting someone short to tiptoe up with a star for the top. The usual box of plastic decorations was missing.

"I did," Ben confirmed from behind me. "I was hoping, after you've had a chance to rest, that maybe you'd come with me to buy new ornaments. Hannah is coming up to see me this weekend, and I was thinking…"

I turned to peer at him inquisitively. "Thinking what?"

Ben met my eyes briefly, then moved to the couch, near the warm fireplace. Automatically I followed, sitting on the far end and stretching my legs across his lap. He smiled momentarily and proceeded to take my smelly boots off for me. Old habits were the most reassuring.

"Last year you seemed disappointed about Christmas in general," Ben answered, not looking at me as he yanked off the right boot before carefully removing the left one, supporting my ankle as if it was still broken. "I hoped the three of us could decorate a tree together."

"I don't know…" I said slowly, pulling my freed feet away and shifting so that I sat next to him. "Seems a bit premature, don't you think? Especially if you were expecting a fight."

"Yeah, I know." He looked at his hands as if he didn't know what to do with them, muttering something about a 'peace offering.'

"I thought the jacket was the peace offering."

He only shrugged in response. Jesus, how mad did Laura usually get? Or was this in correlation to the severity of the infraction? Ben wasn't usually this much of a suck-up. Maybe I just wasn't used to anyone genuinely seeking to attain my forgiveness—in all my life, no one ever had before.

"Ben," I groaned, "my brain is fried, and I'm about five minutes away from nodding off on your shoulder. Cut to the chase, will you?"

Smiling a brief _that's-my-girl _sort of grin, he cleared his throat. "I'm still going to the rez for Christmas," Ben told me, his voice firm. "It's an important tradition, and I'm not breaking it. But I'm going to sleep at my aunt's house."

"Really?" _Color me surprised._

"Hannah's not a baby anymore." For a moment, he seemed to be reminding himself of this obvious fact. "She's old enough to understand."

In point of fact, she was already old enough years ago, in my opinion. I stopped experiencing Christmas with both parents together at the age of two, when my mother informed my father that, since she was no longer breastfeeding, there was no need for her to stay in Forks with me for the holiday, nor for her to have to endure Charlie's presence in our California apartment as she had the first year after the divorce. And yes, Renee told me that story herself when I became curious some years later about the original details of my custody arrangement and wondered why Charlie always seemed so uncomfortable visiting me in Phoenix. To my mind, children of divorce dealt with separate Christmases and feuding parents all the time, because that was reality. While it was noble and sweet that Ben and Laura attempted to make holidays more "normal" for their daughter, to me it always seemed like the sleeping-over part would be confusing for her, even if he was just crashing on the sofa. Like Hannah's parents wanted her to continue believing in elf toymakers long after it became clear that her gifts all came from a store. But it had never been my place to say such things to Ben about how chose to raise his child.

"Glad to hear it." I groaned softly, my head hurting from trying to interpret the meaning of everything around me. "Just for the record, I've never _wanted_ you to break a tradition that means something to you. You know that, right?"

He nodded.

"So…what's all this got to do with my holiday plans?" I wondered.

Ben waited a beat before speaking. "I was thinking we could have our own little Christmas, too," he told me quietly.

Between the fire in the hearth and the idea of new ornaments and fresh snow, I could almost imagine it, but it was like an unfinished painting—important elements were still absent from the overall picture. "The two of us," I asked sleepily, massaging my temple, "or the three of us?" With a deep sigh, I leaned my head on his shoulder and stared drowsily at the bare Blue Spruce. In Ben's family, children were told stories of Snowbeard, a figure almost identical to Santa Claus except that he traveled with a spirit wolf companion rather than reindeer. I wondered what kind of tales went along with that mythology.

"I don't know." The low, gruff timbre of his voice pulsed through his body and into mine. Somehow I found it comforting. "I have Hannah with me for the week after Christmas this year. I need to find out what she's comfortable with before we make any concrete plans, but I wanted to mention it to you, see how you feel about it."

There was no grand statement about how I was his life now; I wouldn't have believed him if he said anything so blatantly deceptive. Hannah came first, naturally, always. But there was room for me, too, and after a long history of rejection, that was a beautiful notion.

"I don't know how I feel about it yet," I mumbled as my eyelids drifted closed. "Ask me again in a few hours."

* * *

Footnotes:

Outlaw Patches: Most bikers are ordinary people, but a small percentage are classified as belonging to organized crime syndicates. "Outlaw Patches" is a reference to the gang/club patches sewn onto the back of a member's vest or jacket. As a prospective member makes his way through the membership process, from Hang-around to Associate to Prospect to full membership, the number of insignia patches on his back increases until he is voted in. "Full-Patch" members of the Hells Angels have the entire 4-pc crest on their jackets. Other patches elsewhere on the jacket denote anything from rank to commitment to (allegedly) criminal activity.

HELIT TŦE SWÍḴE: (SENĆOŦEN) Spare the man's life.

_Tatau: _Samoan tattoo form, described in this chapter.

_Pe'a: _tattoo given to Samoan men, extending from lower/mid back and stomach to just above the knees; every part of the skin except the testicles and penis are tattooed

_Ta moko:_ Maori (i.e.: indigenous New Zealand native) tattoo form in which the skin is not just inked, but carved with special chisels

_**Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. All recognizable characters and song lyrics are the property of their respective copyright owners. Portions of Stephenie Meyer's original work are reprinted, but no copyright violation is intended. References to real places and groups are used fictitiously, and certain elements of history are ignored. This story is in no way meant to reflect actual criminal events or territorial claims of gangs or motorcycle clubs in Vancouver or any other location.**_


	10. 9 2013 Part 1

**I am alive! Real life has been extra stressful, which is why this chapter is late. I make no promises for the next publishing date. Thanks for reading!**

February 2013

Ben's House

Vancouver, BC

"I don't think," Ben rasped at me, "I've ever seen you like this."

"Stop talking," I shushed him, stuffing more pillows behind him as he sat up in bed. "And I don't see what the big deal is. All I did was make you a pot of _caldo de pollo_ and a pan of Spanish rice. Standard cure for sickness in Arizona. Lord knows I make it for Brown all the time."

Ben looked at the large bowl of Mexican chicken soup on his tray. As custom dictated, I spooned the bright-orange rice in the bowl first, then ladled the soup over it. Ben stirred it around a little, sniffing at it (which was pointless, as he couldn't smell anything). He held up a lemon wedge and lifted a curious eyebrow at me.

"Squeeze the juice into the soup," I prompted, picking up his laundry and thrusting it into the hamper. As a general rule, I did not wash Ben's clothes for him, but he wasn't well enough to do much for himself, and as long as I was disinfecting everything else in the house, I might as well deal with germ-ridden clothing, too. My motivations were not entirely altruistic; I spent enough time here that I was sure to catch Ben's strep throat if I didn't take precautions. The best way to avoid a prolonged cycle of infecting each other with a communicable disease was to keep everything clean.

He'd do the same for me. My laundry didn't haul itself to the Laundromat when I was on crutches.

Halfway through washing the dishes, I heard Ben's hand-held bell ring a tentative chime. He wasn't used to using it himself—it was Hannah's bell from a long-ago bout with swine flu that coincided with Ben not having any work for two consecutive weeks. Honestly, I was surprised he rang it at all; he was so stubborn and independent, I felt sure he would just get up and try to do things for himself when he should be resting.

"Need anything?" I asked, standing in the doorway.

Smiling tiredly, his eyes twinkled at me. "Lonely. Come eat lunch with me."

Five minutes later I was sitting beside him on his bed, my food perched on an old SpongeBob tray. We clinked—or rather, clunked—our plastic water bottles together, just to be silly. I proposed a toast to antibiotics, debated what movies we should watch from his Netflix instant-watch queue—I wanted to watch _Star Trek: Insurrection_ again but he wanted _Slap Shot_ (I never watched supernatural horror, which amused him)—and told him a dirty joke Renee e-mailed me.

"Why are these vegetables so big?" Ben asked, slicing through a chunk of potato with his spoon.

"This takes a long time to cook," I replied, spearing some chicken with my fork and tossing a cleaned chicken bone into the nearby bone dish. "You're supposed to cut the pieces large so they won't dissolve in the broth." I told him about learning to make this when I was eleven and my mother sent me down to the _taqueria _around the corner from my ballet studio when she was sick. The cook was worried about me walking all that way by myself every day just for soup, so she told me how to make it myself, what spices to add to set it apart from ordinary soup. "There's supposed to be cilantro in it, too," I added, "but you said you're allergic."

"What are we doing?" Ben asked; his throat sounded much better now that he had something warm to eat.

"Talking about soup, I guess." I shrugged, a little surprised at the question. "You asked me about it."

"What are _you_ doing?" Ben stressed, looking at me strangely. "Why are you…here…like this?"

"You're sick, and I want to look after you." A foreign thing I couldn't identify crackled in his eyes. "Is this about earlier, when you said you'd never seen me like this? By the way, that makes no sense at all; I cook here all the time. You—"

"Not that." Ben shook his head at me. "I meant…everything."

"Everything?" I repeated, confused.

"Move in with me," Ben said suddenly. His spoon was still in his hand, carrot hovering over his bowl.

"Benjamin," I said slowly, laying my fork and spoon down and shifting the tray off my lap, "are you delirious with fever again?" Yesterday at the clinic his temperature was so high he started calling the nurse a pineapple head. He wasn't far off the mark about her hair, actually.

He gave me a low chuckle and looked away. "Maybe."

Ben smiled as I leaned over, brushed his hair back with my palm, and delicately pressed my lips to his forehead to check for signs of elevated temperature, the way my mother used to. Yes, there it was. It surprised me that he was hungry at all. "Would you like me to take your food away so you can sleep?" I offered.

"No. I like it." He went back to shoveling overlarge vegetables in his mouth. "Sit down and eat."

"Okay…" I cleared my throat and pulled my tray back, resuming my own meal.

I wasn't sure what brought this on. We never discussed living together before, although now that I thought about it, it was a natural conversation to have given how often we stayed over at each other's places. And we'd been together for years. Why hadn't either of us brought it up before? Was it my fault that we hadn't because I'd been so distant? Did he expect me to hate the idea? _Did_ I hate the idea? Considering this for a moment, I realized that I liked the notion in theory, maybe more than liked it, but the timing didn't feel right. The question came across as impulsive, but was this another one of those issues I should expect him to discuss with his daughter first, or did it fall under the category of Things Hannah Was Old Enough to Accept Without Debate? How were we going to explain the situation to her? She'd been completely in favor of having a second Christmas with Ben and myself, and we had a _wonderful_ time, but that wasn't the same as me being here all the time. If I lived with Ben, what should I expect as far as holidays? Was he going to send me on my merry way to Forks or Jacksonville while he went to the rez alone, or would I be invited to go with him?

And what about the practical aspects of cohabitation, like bills? He made enough money to pay his own utilities, but I wasn't one to be a kept woman. He had a mortgage, and the cost of living in Vancouver was high—was I supposed to be paying him rent, or taking over the electric bill or something? Did he expect me to cook and clean for him like I did for Renee and Charlie, or was it more like you-cook-tonight-and-I'll-do-the-dishes? What should I expect from him that he wasn't already doing now? If he went for a long stretch of time without work, was I supposed to pick up the financial slack? Was I even in a position to do that? Would I end up having to cut back on my classes? Where was I supposed to put all my stuff? Because of the ridiculous scheduling this semester, I literally spent fourteen hours of every day on campus working two jobs, attending my doctoral classes, and studying, not including the time I spent at my own campus apartment—would I actually be spending more time with Ben than I did now if I moved in? His house was on the edge of town, almost in Burnaby; would my old car be able to withstand the daily commute, or would I have to finally admit to its demise and get a new one?

And what did he mean, _what are we doing?_

Swallowing a spoonful of broth and rice and panic, I asked him, "Are we going to talk about what just happened?"

"Muh," Ben nodded, trying to hurry up and chew his food.

"Ben," I began, hoping to head him off at the pass, "please don't get upset. It's not that I wouldn't want to, but you live so far from the university, and with my hours—"

"It's okay," he interrupted. He didn't sound defeated or hurt or angry, just hoarse and a little congested. "You've always done things in your own time." Another swig of water, and he added, "Besides, I'd hate for you to think I just want you in here for maid service and sick-nursing."

"I don't," I assured him automatically, still wondering where this moving-in business had suddenly come from and why he looked at me that way before.

"It's also 'cause you're amazing in bed," he smirked.

Just like that, everything was back to normal. I elbowed him gently in the ribs. "Pig," I laughed. And even though I knew I'd probably get sick, I leaned over and kissed him.

* * *

March 2013

Ben's House

Vancouver, BC

"I just stick these little white crosses in between, like this?" I asked, holding the tiny white foam piece in place.

"No," Ben corrected me, "turn it ninety degrees, so that the arms are perpendicular to the crevice between the tiles."

I obeyed, noticing how it looked like a little gravestone. "What do I do next?"

Ben showed me how to properly line up all the tiles and use the spacers. His house had one and a half bathrooms, and this weekend I set aside time to help him work on the full bath. That meant that tonight, before we headed out for a well-earned beer at the Chatterbox, he'd be showering at my place. Which I was happily anticipating, if only for how fun it was to join him. "It's about time you finally got around to remodeling the bathrooms," I remarked.

"Yeah, well, it increases the resale value."

Caught off guard, I paused in my work and looked up at him. "You want to sell the house?"

"I've been thinking about it," he nodded. "I originally bought this place intending to fix it up and flip it, but then the housing market went to shit. It looks like the market might be on the way back up, though. If I make a good profit, I can buy something closer to town."

"Oh." I looked at the large square tile in my hand, white marble with naturally artistic swirls of grey.

"Something wrong?"

"No," I replied instantly, then stopped myself from changing the subject. Why did I always do that? "It's silly."

"I like silly."

"It's…" I placed the marble piece on the floor and picked up another little spacer. "I just really liked these tiles, and now I feel kind of cheated out of enjoying them." I peeked up at him, feeling shy and insecure. "Like I said: silly."

Ben gave me a strange look, but he didn't make fun of me. "I like them, too. I never saw tile with this particular marbling before. Where did you get that box of tile samples from, anyway?"

"I, uh…" I tried to find something else to do with my hands and picked up the next piece. "They belonged to this lady I knew when I was a teenager. I brought them with me when I moved here. This one was my favorite."

"I see." Ben was quiet, but then he picked up a tile of his own. "She was important to you."

I sat very still, focusing on the marble in front of me. "Yes."

"And she's gone now."

Silence. I nodded, but didn't explain.

"Bella." I looked up into two warm eyes. "I've always known that it's hard for you to talk about certain things. And that's all right—I'm the same way sometimes. You don't have to say anything if you don't want to. But if you do, I'm right here."

I nodded again and looked back at the unfinished floor. All the spacers made it resemble a cemetery. "I think…I want to talk about her. A little."

"Okay. What was she like?"

"She liked to restore houses," I said softly. "She really pulled out all the stops, too. She took this three story house, maybe two hundred years old, and turned it into the most amazing house I've ever seen. The front looked one hundred percent authentic, but the entire back wall was made of that glass they use on high-rises. And even though she used too much white inside the house, it wasn't a sterile space, and it wasn't pretentiously modern. It felt so comfortable."

"I've never seen anything like that," Ben replied. He closed his eyes, probably trying to picture it.

"I think she said it was called a federal farmhouse." I realized I wasn't really talking about Esme—I was talking about her home. "She was nice, too, you know? Gracious. Kind. She had five kids, all adopted as teenagers, and she loved being their mom. She and her husband would take them out to play baseball."

"Baseball?" Ben seemed impressed. "Really?"

"Yeah." It surprised me, how good it felt to say these things out loud, and saying them to Ben. "Mostly she liked to umpire or catch, but she had a mean fastball. She was talented, well-read, and always welcoming. She could do just about anything." I paused, smiling a little. "Except cook."

Ben laughed with me. "Sounds like a special lady."

"She was."

A little white cross hit me on the knee, and I looked up to see Ben still smiling. "So are you."

* * *

April 2013

Gathering of Nations Powwow

Albuquerque, New Mexico

"Bella! Bella, look at those people!"

"I see them, Hannah." Her enthusiasm was infectious. "But it's rude to point with your fingers here."

"Oh." She frowned thoughtfully. "Then what do I point with?"

"Your eyes," I answered quietly, smoothing out her hair. "A little nod of the head," I demonstrated, "and you purse your lips a little bit, like this."

"Like blowing a kiss?" Hannah looked at me as if I was crazy before puckering up for all she was worth.

"Not quite that exaggerated," I laughed. "But essentially, yes. And those people are Navajo. That's a basket dance. If you watch and let yourself absorb them, you'll feel their _hozh'q._"

"What's that?"

"It means…" I closed my eyes and tried to remember the right words. "The beauty of life, as seen and created by a person. It's something that comes from within, and spreads outward. It's a kind of harmony."

"You're right," Hannah said in wonder, her focus returning to the intricately outfitted dancers. "They're beautiful." Their leather, beadwork, and flowing movements were a stunning sight for anyone, but for none so much as Hannah.

"Yes, they are," I agreed, looking at her lively expression. "But so are you." With a tap on her nose, I gave her an encouraging grin and checked over her outfit one last time, straightening the collar. "Are you ready?"

Hannah nodded, eyes wide, excited and nervous. "What if I mess up?"

"You won't be the only one," I reassured her. "Everybody makes mistakes. Just keep going, keep trying your best. You're very lucky, you know—you have much better balance than I did at your age. You just need to have a little confidence. Pretend you're only dancing for your parents, if that helps."

For just a moment, Hannah's bright face fell. "I wish my mom was here," she murmured.

"I know," I whispered back, wishing the same thing. Laura had been working so hard, practicing this Spirit Dance with Hannah for months, and I hated that she had to miss this because of work. Every parent should be able to watch their little girl dance.

"Don't worry," I told her, taking her small hand and leading her into the waiting area, "your dad has the video camera, and you can watch it with your mom over and over when you get back home."

I kept Hannah's hand in mine until her number was called and wished her well in SENĆOŦEN. She answered back with a quick "HÍSW̱ḴE," then squared her tiny shoulders and stepped solemnly into the dance arena, bearing the dignity of a much older girl.

"Your daughter is lovely," I heard someone say. It took me a few extra seconds before I realized the woman who spoke was addressing me.

"Oh!" I started, glancing at the kind-faced, elderly woman. Her clothing gave her away immediately as a Makah, here to participate in the Northern Traditional dance competition. "Thank you, Grandmother, but she's not mine."

"Really?" the woman asked with raised eyebrows. "She has your eye."

"She has her father's eyes," I laughed, looking back at Hannah as she moved and glided and stepped, simple and wonderful. "I just happened to be brown-eyed, too, when I met her dad."

With a patient smile, the Makah woman shook her head. "No, I mean she has your _eye. _You only see her."

I nodded once, still grinning politely, and kept watching Ben and Laura's daughter as I tried to sort out my feelings. I knew I would never be Hannah's mother; I'd always known that, accepted it, even preferred it. This was the first time, however, that the thought ever made me feel so empty and sad, and I had no idea why that might be. I was not the kind of person who got emotional over the baby clothes section in the department store or stopped random strangers in parks to tell them how adorable their offspring were. I had no desire to deal with the physical restrictions of pregnancy or give up the lifestyle that I enjoyed so that I could spend every waking moment worrying over being responsible for a new little life that was entirely dependent on me. I wasn't that kind of woman and never would be.

But the Makah lady had spoken the most surprising truth of my life. In a warm desert so like the one I grew up in, in an uncomfortably hot arena full of thousands of people covered in a kaleidoscope of beads, feathers, face paint, fabrics, rabbit furs, and leather, surrounded by an infinite spectrum of cultural details begging to be noticed, I only saw Hannah.

And she just wanted her mom.

I felt my stomach clench as I remembered one of the prophylactic directives I once made for myself as a cautious, distrustful undergrad:

_Don't get attached—you only lose what you cling to._

How could I have let this happen?

Hannah finished her dance, bowed before the judges, and ran back to me, surprising me with bony young arms flung around my waist. After a second's hesitation, I wrapped my own arms around her shoulders, stroking her hair as I told her what a wonderful dancer she was.

_Is getting attached really such a terrible thing after all?_

* * *

April 2013

Ben's House

Vancouver, BC

"What's all this?" Ben asked, his face bright with amusement and curiosity as he took off his work jacket and stood in the doorway. His house didn't have a formal dining room, just a kitchen with room for a table, which was currently laid out with his grandmother's tablecloth and the best dishes he had, which is to say, not the plastic ones.

"Dinner," I answered, standing by the table in a new dress—Shalice's idea. _Presentation matters,_ she told me, _so get something nice, not slutty_. "Wash up and come sit down, please."

He did, giving me a quick kiss and inhaling as he got closer to the serving dishes. "Smells good."

"Thank you." This particular meal was a tradition in Coast Salish culture, but I'd only ever seen it served anywhere a handful of times. It took me two days to track down all the ingredients, including a special black salt, and another day of testing in Shalice's kitchen to make sure I knew what the heck I was doing. "I hope you like it."

It wasn't until our plates were on the table and Ben took a good look that his face _really_ lit up. "Is this…?"

"Your mother's sockeye salmon recipe," I nodded, smiling. "I called your aunt. She said this used to be your favorite. Hopefully I did it justice."

"Bella…" He was staring at the table as if he couldn't believe it.

"Did I forget something?" There didn't _seem_ to be anything missing, but maybe—

"No. It's just…I haven't had this since Mom died."

"Oh." I looked down at my plate, wondering if I'd disrespected his mother's memory. Couldn't I ever do anything right?

Ben's knife made a scraping sound against his dish. "Oh my _god,_ this is delicious." He started attacking his food with an enthusiasm I rarely saw in him. "When did you even find time to do this? I thought you were busy grading papers."

"I made the time." Relieved, I lifted my fork and ate with him, talking of simple things, listening as he told me about his last years with his parents. From what he said, I gathered that no one else, not even his ex-wife, had ever gone to the trouble of making this for him except me. This pleased me, but I didn't stop to analyze why.

"So what was the occasion?" he asked me later, when the house was quiet and we were lying together, keeping each other warm.

"No reason," I whispered, twisting our bare legs together. "I just wanted to do something special for you."

* * *

May 2013

Dept. of Anthropology

UBC

_From one of the many indigenous dialects of India, this is a language that adds various levels of meaning to the English word "love" that we must spell out if we wish to convey them. Onsay is Boro's concise way of saying "pretend to love." Onguboy more positively means "to love from the heart." Onsra has a level of sadness and translates as "to love for the last time."_

"Give me one good reason," I said to the freshman who'd 'written' this in his essay on cross-cultural concepts of love for my Comparative Languages class, "why I shouldn't fail you right now."

Because I taught for them, the university had to give me office space. They did not, however, have to give me too much of it. I shared this particular room with three other instructors, each with their own little corner and desk. We were required to keep a minimum number of office hours per week, but as we were all Ph.D. students, we mostly used the time and the quiet to study. I didn't get too many visits from my students, in fact outside of class I was more likely to see them in Financial Aid than here, but sometimes I had occasion to call one in for a chat. For the sake of discretion, I scheduled this one when the other teachers were gone. The boy sitting across from me remained mute as I confronted him. He had red hair, pale skin, freckles—the only way he could be more blatantly Irish was to have the accent and be named O'Malley. I knew him to be eighteen, but he looked sixteen to me. God, was I ever that young?

I rolled my chair backwards, toward a section of low bookshelves, and pulled out a small, unassuming little hardback: _In Other Words: A Language Lover's Guide to the Most Intriguing Words Around the World_ by Christopher J. Moore. Thumbing through it quickly, I stopped at page 117. "_Onsay_. Boro, India. Verb," I quoted. "From one of the many indigenous dialects of India, this is a language that adds various levels of meaning to the English word 'love' that we must spell out if we wish to convey them…I think you get my point, Mr. Malone. Do you have anything to say?"

The boy sighed. "Ms. Swan, I'm taking eighteen credit hours this semester. I'm doing everything I can to keep up with my course load."

I lifted an eyebrow at him. "Including plagiarism?"

"No!" he said quickly, his eyes dancing around nervously. "I mean, I didn't _mean_ to do that. I meant to quote it and credit the author, you know? But time got short, and I had two other papers due, calculus and geology tests, and a lab exam to prep for, and—"

"Mr. Malone," I stopped him, "I don't know if you pulled this stunt in your other classes, but the reason I have my students submit their essays electronically is so that I can run them against a search engine that detects this sort of intellectual theft. You didn't forget just one footnote."

"Oh," the boy mumbled. "Right."

"I looked at your bibliography," I continued. "It's poorly done." He obviously wasn't taught how to do it properly. What did they _teach_ in high school these days other than how to take a standardized test?

"Yeah." He focused on the book on my desk. "It's just…some things can be rephrased, but some things can't. If 'onsay' means 'pretend to love,' then how else am I supposed to say that? Make something up? Say 'she's just not that into you?' It means what it means. And, like, you said at the beginning of the year that you want lots of sources, but you also said you want original thought, and it's like, quoting source after source becomes 'here's what this other author said, and I agree,' and there's no room for my own thoughts because I have to tell you what everyone else thought."

I considered the young man for a moment. He wasn't wrong—I had that same concern in high school, if memory served. My English teacher then didn't have a satisfactory answer, but I had one right now. "What do you think would happen to you if you submitted a paper with uncredited sources for your thesis, or for publication?" He didn't have anything to say. "I don't want you to parrot what you read verbatim and call it yours. I want you to show you understand what the hell you're talking about."

"How am I supposed to show I understand all these forms of love if I don't even know what it is myself, in _any_ language?" he asked, looking earnest for the first time in our entire conversation. "I don't know the difference between loving someone and just pretending. I mean, if you're treating someone the same either way, is there even a difference?"

Disturbed, I frowned and picked up his essay print-out. "A fine question for a philosophy class, but it's hardly relevant to the issue at hand."

Being a cop's daughter afforded me a different perspective than the older professors who'd been doing this for twenty years. Yeah, what this kid did was wrong, but he wasn't robbing banks or shooting anyone. This boy was a first-year student, with his whole academic career ahead of him. The sections of his paper that weren't ripped off indicated a hidden potential that needed to be developed, and probably would if he'd just pull his head out of his ass. "Because you've never done anything like this in my class before, and because you did not plagiarize excessively in this paper, I'm willing to give you a D and call it an error with your 'Works Cited' page. You'll still pass my class, but not with as high of a grade as you were hoping." I scrawled some extra notes on the last page, entered his grade in my computer, and handed his paper back. "There's a recommendation for a book to help you construct a bibliography, since you clearly don't know how it's done, so that this doesn't happen again. I would also recommend you find a tutor in the English department if you need direct instruction. You'll be writing a lot more papers before your time here is over, unless someone else flunks you. I'm not going to be the only teacher who catches this bullshit, but I probably am the only one who'll tolerate a first offense. Do not expect me to do so again. If I have the good fortune to see you in the fall, I expect better things from you. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am." He thanked me, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and went away. I finished up a few things, thought for several minutes, and grabbed my cell phone.

"Chief Swan speaking."

"Hi Dad."

"Hey! Is everything okay?"

"Fine, I promise." It was unusual for me to contact him at this time of day, so I had to reassure him I wasn't hurt. "Listen, I wanted to ask you a question, but it's kind of personal, and I'll understand if you can't talk about it."

"Sure…hang on." I heard him close the door to his office. "Go ahead."

"Do you still love Renee?"

Charlie made a noise I didn't think I'd ever heard come out of his throat. "Shit, Bella."

"Yeah, I know." I toyed with the edge of page 117. It had long been dog-eared and worn from repeated readings. "That's why I called you at work, so Sue wouldn't have to hear."

"You haven't asked me anything I wouldn't discuss with her if she asked me herself," Charlie replied, surprising me. It was a tribute to Sue that my father was willing to talk about his feelings _at all,_ but this was a level of emotional candor I had never seen in him before. "I just don't understand where this question is coming from."

"Just…I don't know. Doing some soul-searching lately."

"Is this about Ben and his ex-wife?" I only sighed in answer. "I see."

"Well?" I prodded.

"Bella," my father exhaled, "I married your mother because I loved her. People get married for the wrong reason all the time, but I married for love. There are two things you need to understand about that. One, those feelings don't die off _because_ of separation. Your mom taking off like that didn't make me not love her, any more than it made me not love you. Was I angry? Hell yes. You don't get that pissed at someone, or that hurt, if you don't care." I had to agree with that—I wouldn't get half so mad at my mother if I didn't care so much about what she thought.

"Which leads me to number two," Charlie continued. "Just because I loved your mom did not mean we were good together. I thought the world of her, but we were only happy for all of about six months. By then the honeymoon stage wore off, which was hard enough, but she was also pregnant, extremely hormonal, stuck in the rain, and she lived thirteen hundred miles away from her parents, which she hated. She wanted to see the world and have all these grand adventures, and believe me, I wanted that for her—I wanted that _with _her. But I didn't grow up with beatniks for parents; I took a more practical view of the world. I had two sick parents here, and I had to take care of them while I tried to make enough money to send to you. Renee wasn't interested in getting back together and settling for me or Forks. She went off to live the kind of life she wanted, and I didn't begrudge her that. I loved her enough to be happy for her eventually, once I stopped feeling so hurt."

"I don't understand." Leaning forward, I rested my head on my palm. Which one was his _onsay,_ and which was his _onguboy?_ "Do you love her, or do you love Sue?"

"Both, honey." Charlie sounded so strange, like he couldn't believe I hadn't gotten this already. "It's just different. I'll always love your mother. But Sue is…well, I guess you would call her my soul mate."

I didn't say anything, just sat and pondered. I wanted to ask Charlie if he thought Sue felt the same way about him, but I was afraid to, in case the answer was _no._ My soul mate, if I could still call him that, if I ever could have called him that, told me he loved me every day, including the day he vanished. No matter how much I wanted to, it was hard to hope for anything better than _onsay_.

* * *

June 2013

Maligne Road

Alberta, Canada

Bright white bore down on me from overhead. Urgent but controlled voices swam in and out of my ear. Stinging pain wept its warm, thick tears on my leg. Why always the same leg? I tried to point my toes; it should have been an unachievable feat through my heavy motorcycle boots, but the boot was gone, and someone was holding my calf, applying pressure. The old smell of salt and rust made me queasy, but I'd grown somewhat resistant to the nausea after years of tool-bloodied knuckles.

"_Mademoiselle, comment vous appelez-vous? _Can you tell me your name, ma'am?"

I looked up into a pair of bright, cerulean eyes, marveling momentarily at the color before I realized she was waiting for an answer.

"Bella…Isabella Swan." I felt the other medic securing a tourniquet just above my knee. "My ID is in the…saddlebags."

The whiteness shone down on me again—the paramedic's flashlight. She was checking my pupils. "Don't worry, we've got your stuff." She seemed to be speaking louder than necessary. Why did it feel like I was moving? Was I on a gurney? "Bella, can you tell me where it hurts?"

"Just my leg," I assured her after a moment's thought and a tentative wiggle of my big toe, followed by the rest of my foot. "Torn up, but it doesn't feel broken." The leg guards on my bike…damn things actually worked.

"You lost consciousness for a little bit, there. How's the head?"

I reached up automatically to touch a tender spot on my right side and realized that my helmet was gone and I was in a neck brace. "Slight pain here," I pointed. "Is it bad?"

"Can you tell me what year it is?"

"It's…thirteen."

"Ready for transport," the male voice at my legs informed us, climbing out of the small space and shutting two doors on us before reemerging somewhere behind my head and shifting into Drive. He was talking to someone. "Dispatch, this is medic unit one, requesting permission to run hot. Priority one."

"Do you remember what happened to you, ma'am?" The female voice was further away now. Pressure on my leg again. "Do you remember anything at all?"

Wet road…tarmac…gravel… "Went into a skid…" Something seemed wrong about that. "How did you find me? I was alone." Sirens. So loud. I guessed we were 'running hot' after all.

"Passing motorist called it in." I didn't remember any cars—I didn't remember my leg getting sliced open, either. "Miss Swan, we're taking you to Seton General Hospital."

"Seton?" I asked, trying to look at the blue-eyed woman but unable to maneuver my neck. "I thought I was at…Maligne Canyon." I stopped there to see the waterfall and take pictures of the landscape. It was a planned stop on my way to Edmonton, which should have been only three hours' ride away from the canyon. Ben's company won a bid for a job there, and for my first summer off in years, I placed all my things in storage and planned an epic road trip, part of which involved traveling to wherever Ben had work. What the medic was saying didn't match what I marked on my roadmap. "Where's Seton?"

With a slight frown in her voice, she answered, "You _were_ at the canyon. Seton's just the name of the closest hospital."

I winced at the strengthening headache, trying to remember something important. "What town?"

"Jasper."

_Jasper National Park._

Shit. Leave it to Jasper to leave me bleeding and ruin all my plans. Again.

"Miss Swan, is the pain getting worse?"

"No," I whispered, lying through my teeth even as my tears betrayed me. "I'm just tired."

"You can't go to sleep," the woman said hurriedly. "Miss Swan? Stay awake with me. Can you tell me who we should notify? Emergency contacts? Family?"

I saw Alice's face in my mind. The good-natured way she rolled her eyes at me when I tripped. How she had to help me take a bath every day when my leg was broken. My leg. It was the same leg. "That leg's been broken before. A clean break to the tibia…I was seventeen," I murmured. Did I tell her that already? "And that ankle was broken…few years ago. Steel plates and pins are still in there."

"Good to know," the woman went along with me, trying to keep me talking. "Anything else? What's your blood type?"

"O negative," I muttered, feeling groggy.

"Call in O negative," she said loudly. "Ma'am, you have to stay awake. Tell me who we need to call." I was supposed to call someone. Who was it? "Where is your family?"

_Bella, we're leaving…my family and myself._

"They left me," I mumbled as my eyes closed and the pain in my leg began to fade. "They didn't want me anymore." Trees. I saw trees. A stray sunbeam. A loud, fat raven on a low branch, warning his mate of danger, _Ga k__̱__aa - Ga k__̱__aa!_ _Something is coming!_

"Bella, tell me about your family."

_They're all gone. I stayed behind to tell you goodbye._

"YOŦ SEN OL U HE,HO,I." I'm always alone.

"Where are they?"

_Where we're going…It's not the right place for you._

"Do you know how to find them?"

"_Taawla hll k__̱__ing ga._" I see a rainbow.

"Where are you from?"

Phoenix. Forks. "Phoenorks."

"She's still losing blood, pulse is dropping, and she's losing consciousness. Ed, drive faster."

"I'm already driving too fast! Tighten her tourniquet, goddamn it!"

Ed…_Edward…_

"We're almost there, Bella. Tell me where you live."

_I won't come back._

"Forks…"

"Bella! Bella…"

Dark.

_Bella._

Muffled sounds. Rustling.

_Bella?_

Someone touched my hair. Fingers. "_Dang stl'aay k'aw ga,_" I murmured—_your hand is cold._

_Bella? Can you hear me?_

Not real. It's never real. "U TW̱ HE,HO,I SEN OL." _I'm just alone now._

"EWE," he answered. _No._

I'm not? "X̱ENIṈ?" _Why?_

"EWE SENs YÁ,." _I'm not going._

I opened my eyes and saw him sitting on the edge of my bed, arm outstretched as he pressed frigid fingers against the side of my head.

"Ben?"

"Hey there." Relief flooded the walnut-colored eyes as he pulled the ice pack away and looked at every detail of my face. "Glad to see you awake. You scared the living shit out of me, woman."

"What are you doing here?" I asked hoarsely, sitting up in bed a little and looking uncertainly around the room. There were several beds with polka-dotted curtains around them, crash carts, four people milling about in scrubs and one in a white lab coat—all the trappings of a small-town emergency room. Through a window on the opposite wall, I could see a dark sky.

"One of the nurses checked your cell phone and called me." Had his eyes always been so bright? "I got down here in record time."

"Record time?" I checked my wrist, but my watch wasn't there. Gingerly I reached up, pressing my finger against part of my skull. For some reason it felt swollen under my fingertip, but it didn't hurt.

"It's after midnight now. I've been waiting for you to wake up." Ben handed me the icepack in his hand. "Doc says you've got a bump on the head, but no severe head trauma, no spinal injuries, and no internal bleeding."

Two other hospitals flashed before my eyes, one stark white with vertical blinds and a desert landscape painting hanging from a wall, the other long with blue walls, pastel privacy curtains, and a familiar bloody young face in the next bed—Taylor, Tyler maybe? I blinked slowly, pressing the ice to the engorged spot on my head.

_Bella, you hit your head, you don't know what you're talking about._

"My leg?" I asked sleepily. I couldn't feel a thing. Must have been some really good morphine.

"You got eighteen staples in the primary gash," Ben said quietly, as though afraid, "and a lot of smaller cuts that had to be stitched up, but no breaks or fractures. That leg'll be scarred up pretty bad, and there's some muscular tissue damage, but the major arteries are intact. You're very lucky. You could have bled out if someone hadn't called it in. They had to use the last of their supply of your blood type to give you a transfusion."

_I didn't like it—it made you smell all wrong for a while._

"A nurse asked that we come back and donate soon," he added. "The blood shortage is bad here." He looked down at my leg, swaddled in bandages, his hand hovering over the wound but not touching it. "I'm B-negative." His tone threw me off. Was he…apologizing?

_I saved your life—I don't owe you anything._

"Huh," I grunted.

"I called your dad," he continued with a grimace. "Charlie's upset, but he didn't sound all that surprised. He suggested we not tell Renee unless we want her flying up here and pissing you off. Something about none of this happening if you'd moved to Florida?" He cocked an eyebrow at me.

_I think that boy is in love with you._

I shrugged lightly.

"I bought you a change of clothes and new shoes," Ben went on, nodding at a white plastic bag on a nearby chair. "They had to cut your jeans open, and your boot was too drenched in blood to be used again."

_No blood, no foul._

"The doctor says he'll release you in a few hours if someone keeps an eye on you." Ben pulled at the sleeve of the canvas work jacket on his lap, worrying the seam. "He's supposed to give me a list of instructions and a prescription for pain meds. Once he signs off on your paperwork, we'll get a place to stay for the night and get your bike from the towing company's lot when they open. I can haul it in my work truck. When you feel up to it, we can have a look at your bike and see what the damage looks like."

_Can't you just thank me and get over it?_

"Ben…" I tried to talk, but the words came out in strange swells, like the sea. "Home is, like…ninety-nine hours away… You can't just drive me and my bike…all the way down there and…come all the way back. It's…clowny."

"Anyone ever told you how hilarious you are when codeine is involved?" he chuckled. "Home is actually _nine_ hours away, not that it matters. I'm bringing you back to Edmonton with me. They've got me in a hotel until this job is done, and you can just stay there with me while you heal up."

_I hope you enjoy disappointment._

I stared up at Ben, my mouth forming a perfect O-shape.

"What is it?" His strong face was marred with worry. "Are you in pain?"

I shook my head, blurring my view for a second. "You came here…for me?" Wasn't that against the rules? _Don't rely on anyone else; the only person with the power or desire to take care of me is _me_._

Ben looked at me like I was stone crazy. "Of _course_ I did. I wasn't just going to leave you here all by yourself. What the hell kind of—?"

But I didn't let him finish; I threw my arms around his neck and pulled him down with me as I dizzily collapsed backward onto my bed. He didn't say anything at all, just kissed the uninjured side of my head. His body was too hot against mine in the chilled hospital air, but I didn't care. I sobbed like a child until a nurse came to check on me and offer more pain meds. Ben held me all the while.

* * *

Footnotes:

_Caldo de pollo _(Spanish) chicken soup

_Taqueria _(Spanish) taco stand (often used to mean "Mexican restaurant")

HÍSW̱ḴE (SENĆOŦEN) Thank you

_Mademoiselle, comment vous appelez-vous?_ (French) Miss, what is your name?

_Maligne Canyon: _Located in Jasper National Park. "Maligne" translates from French as "malignant"

YOŦ SEN OL U HE,HO,I. (SENĆOŦEN) I'm always alone.

_Taawla hll k__̱__ing ga. _(Haida) I see a rainbow.

_Dang stl'aay k'aw ga. _(Haida) Your hand is cold

SENĆOŦEN Salish conversation between Bella and Ben:

Bella: U TW̱ HE,HO,I SEN OL. _I'm just alone now.  
_Ben: EWE _No.  
_Bella: X̱ENIṈ? _Why?  
_Ben: EWE SENs YÁ, _I'm not going._

Leg guards, or engine guards, are bars attached to the sides of a bike to prevent the engine from dragging across the ground in the event of an accident. They would have prevented the bike from crushing Bella's leg, but they would not have prevented her calves or thighs from dragging across any debris in the road.

**_Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. All recognizable characters and song lyrics are the property of their respective copyright owners. Portions of Stephenie Meyer's original work are reprinted, but no copyright violation is intended. References to real places and groups are used fictitiously, and certain elements of history are ignored. This story is in no way meant to reflect actual criminal events or territorial claims of gangs or motorcycle clubs in Vancouver or any other location._**


	11. 10 2013 Part 2

**_For all you lovely people who've left reviews, I'm sorry I wasn't able to respond. Real life is putting my time at a premium, and I figured it would be better spent working on the actual story. But I do read every single review, and I thank you all._**

* * *

**2013 Part 2**

September 2013

Marine Drive Year-Round Student Housing, UBC

Vancouver, BC

"The rally was great this year. Ben took off work, and we rode to Sturgis together, just the two of us," I said enthusiastically, holding the phone to my ear with my shoulder as I pulled on my slacks. Ever since my accident at the canyon, things had been different between Ben and me. A little more openness, a lot more laughter…it wasn't perfect, especially not lately, but overall it was _really_ good. "It was better than the Boogie Bash in Rock Creek. There were so many gorgeous bikes, and we stayed in a beautiful cabin on the KOA campgrounds, and we saw Mt. Rushmore, and it was just…it was wonderful." I was leaving out a few things, but that was deliberate. They were good things, but private, and I needed to think about those to counter the disappointed mood I was in when Charlie called.

"I'm glad you had a good time, honey. Did you compete in the games?"

"No, Dad," I laughed, buttoning up my maroon blouse. "But Ben did. He won the keg toss." I glanced down at my watch. "Shoot. I gotta go, Charlie."

"Big plans?" he asked brightly.

"No, Ben had to cancel on me," I groaned, trying not to let it bother me as much as it did, "and then my boss called me in at the last minute. I have to set up for a meeting at the office. Apparently we've got some new donors coming in this evening, and everything has to be _perfect_ for them." There were two kinds of donors: hands on and hands off. Hands Off donors only came in person if they really had to; other than that, they were content to simply cut a check and let the university decide how the funds were dispersed, and to whom. Hands On donors wanted to be involved in more steps of the process, including selecting the scholarship recipients themselves. Some of them were good people who wanted to make sure their money went to other 'good people,' some of them were there to make bribes, and some of them were just looking for tax breaks or good publicity. In any case, Hands On generally translated to some degree of megalomania, or control issues, or both. For the sake of their funds, we put up with it. Guess which kind liked the red-carpet treatment? That's right, the pretentious assholes.

"Gotcha. Impress the money. That's the only way my department gets replacement equipment anymore," Charlie commiserated. "I'll let you get to work, Bells. Happy Birthday."

God, how did I get roped into working late on my own birthday? It was raining, too, but I had to look professional for things like this, which meant I had to put on waterproof eyeliner (the most evil of all human inventions) and wear my nice pantsuit under my well-cared for, charcoal grey all-weather coat in the midst of a downpour. The trench coat was one of the few things of Esme's I'd been able to use, in spite of our height difference, and because I donned it so rarely, it outlasted nearly every other piece of the Cullens' stolen clothing. I gave myself the onceover in the mirror before I left. Twenty-six today. _And I don't look a day over thirty-two._

Usually I thanked heaven the University Services building was within walking distance of my apartment, but today my bum leg was not thanking me for it. I knew I should have brought my offset cane from the last accident, but I absolutely hated the damn thing. "Bella, you're running late!" Jenna half-hissed as I arrived, trying not to drip rainwater on the office equipment as I hobbled through the room. "Hurry, you have to set up the conference room before the Matthewsons get here."

Running late? The only reason I was able to get here as soon as I did was because I lived so close, a fact the entire staff was well aware of. Marissa, my co-worker, probably just didn't want to spend her Friday night working. Jenna never would have called me on such short notice if I lived off campus, which gave me one more reason in favor of moving out once my housing contract was up.

I followed her across the hall and worked as quickly as possible, making sure the bottled water was in view and there were no doughnut crumbs from any prior meetings lying around. "The Matthewsons?" I asked as I rushed around the room making coffee, laying out the tray of crackers, setting up my boss's demonstration materials, hardly paying attention to the thick packets of paper copies I fanned across the table. I hadn't been the one to process the information for this particular group of donors, so I didn't know anything specific about them. "Who are they, some wealthy couple?" I could handle them easily if need be, but why the hell did they want to conduct this kind of business so late on a Friday evening? It was irritating, to say the least. Didn't they have lives? Or at least realize that _we_ had lives? As if my night wasn't already bad enough, I had to be here for rich pricks with absolutely nothing better to do than show off how powerful their money made them.

"Yes, and their niece and nephew, I think. I'm not sure how many to expect," Jenna answered off-handedly, going over some notes. It wasn't like her to be so nervous. "Generous people, but very intimidating and very private. Now hurry up and go. You can't be in here for the meeting."

I scanned the room one last time as I spoke. "Why not?" The purpose of my presence at these meetings was to assist Jenna as needed (and she generally needed someone to run to her office for some vital paper she'd forgotten _again_) and to suck up to the donors. Not that I _wanted_ to spend my evening kissing ass, but if Jenna had told me she didn't need all that when she called me in, I wouldn't have dressed up—in fact, I probably wouldn't have come at all. I liked my boss, but sometimes she could be forgetful about stuff like that. I, on the other hand, had an excellent memory for detail, which was why I'd been promoted as high as I had in this department and got a pay raise that allowed me to quit waitressing without feeling terrible financial hurt.

Jenna sighed. "The same reason I had Marissa process their information instead of you: conflict of interest. I wasn't going to say anything, but you're one of the students whose applications are up for consideration. They don't want to do personal interviews, so it's hardly fair if they meet you and not the other applicants. Now go make yourself useful. We've got a ton of undergrad apps that need to be organized. I'll come get you when we're done."

Hours I'd be stuck here, because she was too good to make coffee, sweep up crumbs, and take out the trash. Maybe I didn't like my boss _that_ much. But I didn't want her moving my application to the bottom of the pile, either.

I limped out the door and down the hall, nearly tripping on my way into the tiny filing room, and heard the elevator tone signal our guests' arrival just as I shut the door behind me. With a heavy sigh, I put on my reading glasses—a recent acquisition, necessary after years of reading tiny print and staring at computer monitors—and dove into the paperwork usually reserved for the junior office underlings. _Sure beats ladling soup or getting groped by bikers with my old man getting pissed off three feet away,_ I reminded myself. Same thing I always told myself when Jenna annoyed me. Next semester, maybe I'd finally quit this job and just teach more classes. Teaching wasn't all sunshine and lollipops, especially when it came to dealing with these damn freshmen and their sense of entitlement, but I liked it well enough. My old Salish instructor was talking about retiring soon and would need a replacement, but that might be too heavy a schedule to take on while still working on my own degree, especially if I had to run a language lab.

I wondered if my scholarship application would stand out at all to these hoity-toity snobs. I didn't participate in very many organizations other than what was needed for my degree program, and I didn't think 'weekend biker' would look very good under Extracurricular Activities and Outside Interests—I was pushing it by listing 'motorcycle restoration and engine repair.' But I had to write something down, no matter how ridiculous I felt it was for anyone to care about such things at the graduate level, because the simple fact was that I needed money if I was going to stay here and accomplish anything.

Lately I'd been feeling ambivalent about my doctoral program. I was committed to it, because I was the kind of woman who liked to finish what I started, and because the department only accepted twelve or so new grad students a year—as Brown was fond of telling me, only a fool wouldn't see that for the blessing it was. But it was exhausting, working two jobs and going to school. Back when I was earning my Master's degree, I contemplated seeking out one of the careers I knew I was qualified for rather than pursuing my doctorate, but I wasn't certain I'd be allowed to stay in the country if I chose that path. Immigration had been tightening their restrictions lately for political reasons—I was absolutely kicking myself for not applying for citizenship years ago, back when all I needed to do was take a test. Still, I was not without options. If I prolonged my education, I could simultaneously extend my time here and qualify as a "skilled worker" by virtue of being an expert in First Nation cultures and being fluent in six languages besides English, three of which were Canadian aboriginal tongues that were slowly being lost to the vagaries of time. Ben said Immigration was probably already tripping over themselves to naturalize me—I was actually listed, in a national cultural study, as one of only thirty-six people considered fluent in the SENĆOŦEN Salish dialect, even with the Saanich band's linguistic educational program attempting to rectify that. (That information I most definitely remembered to include on my scholarship application.) Laura told Ben that there was talk on the high council of inviting me to take a teaching position on the rez when I completed my studies. I was still thinking about that one, but there was no formal offer on the table yet. If one ever came, Ben and I would need to discuss it further before I accepted.

Then again, if Hannah had her way, I might not be discussing anything with him at all. I could understand that she was getting to the age when a surly attitude was common, but she'd been mouthing off and pushing me away for weeks, 'you're not my mother,' the whole nine yards. Ben had no idea what to do about this sudden personality change other than assume it was his fault somehow, I couldn't do more than remind Hannah that her parents raised her better than that, and all Laura had to offer was 'it's just a phase.' Ben wanted Hannah to be happy, and I wanted that too, but there was happy, and then there was spoiled. Rather than just disciplining her and moving on, he dropped everything, including plans with me, like she _clearly wanted him to do_. Perhaps I was wrong for thinking so, but it was difficult not to imagine what that meant for the future.

_Happy thoughts, Bella. Remember kissing __and telling stories _by the fire under the South Dakota stars. Remember what it's like to wake up in Ben's arms. Think about how good it feels when our skin sticks together, and when he does that thing I like…

Three hours later I was sitting at a worktable and massaging my leg, wishing very much that I could just get into my regular clothes and boots and head over to the Chatterbox already. I'd cut back significantly on my alcohol consumption in the last few years, partly to match Ben's pace and partly to avoid being too drunk to complete my education. Still, I knew the Anthro department heads sometimes called me a functional alcoholic when my back was turned. Self-righteous assholes—like they were any better because they drank five vodka martinis at their country club while I drank a few beers at a run-down dive. _Yeah, Dr. West, that's what makes me an alcoholic and you merely a social drinker: location._

"Bella?" Jenna poked her head through the door. "They've gone now. Come help me clean up, and you can go."

Since the office was empty but for us, I didn't bother putting my shoes back on, leaving them under my regular desk before I went into the conference room. "I guess they weren't much for coffee," I noted, taking the completely full coffeepot to the washroom sink and emptying it before washing it out. But for Jenna's empty bottle, the crackers and water were also untouched.

"They certainly did behave strangely," Jenna replied, gathering and organizing her paperwork. "All of them sniffed the air when they walked in, like there was a cake baking in the oven. They seemed impatient, but I couldn't figure out why. They were so…odd."

My hand slipped on a water bottle, almost dropping my entire armload as I moved it back to the office fridge. "Odd how?"

"I don't know," Jenna shivered, closing a file folder. "I couldn't put my finger on it. Maybe it was the way they looked at me…almost hypnotic. And they kept shooting each other these weird glances all night, but I didn't hear them say anything."

I stood up and searched my boss's face, evaluating her for some invisible sign I thought only I would recognize, something any other human might miss. "What'd they look like, Jenna?"

"Well, they were…beautiful, I guess." A slight blush colored her cheeks. "Absurdly pale, like those people with sun allergies, and their hands were freezing!"

Jesus fucking Christ.

Some covens, I remembered, liked to play games with their prey. Dangling a huge sum of money in front of the director of student financial aid, insisting on meeting at night…the only question was why they hadn't fed yet. Jenna was certainly plump enough. Perhaps they were expecting more humans to be here. The cleaning crew was already gone for the night—or dead in a closet somewhere, but I hadn't heard any screaming. Most likely my smell had caused the coven to change their plans. Specifically, their menu.

_You knew this day might come._

Maybe it was Victoria, or maybe it was someone else; it didn't matter. There was no one to call for help, no friendly, conveniently-placed, human-loving vampires to protect me this time and make life go back to normal. That much I'd come to terms with long ago. _Priorities, Bella._ I could be bitter about it in my next life, but not right now. Time to saddle up.

I had to send Ben and Hannah out of town immediately—no, Ben wouldn't understand. He'd try to come for me if he knew I was in trouble, and there wasn't time to explain the truth. It wouldn't be safe for me to travel with them, not with my scent still so appealing. He would want to take Hannah southwest to his rez, but that would leave the two of them stuck on a slow-moving ferry for too long, and my scent would be on their things. I could just go east without telling Ben anything, but he was already east of me, and the highway passed too close to his house. I damn sure wasn't heading south toward Charlie and my nieces and nephews. If I got on my bike and left a trail, I'd be able to lead the coven away from everybody, either across Lions Gate Bridge toward the northern wilderness or just straight into the water—maybe it would hurt less in the water. Once Jenna dismissed me, I had maybe sixty seconds to call Ben one last time, and then I had to start moving. Was there even time for me to go home and change into riding clothes? Would they be satisfied with just feeding on me and leaving everyone else in my residence hall alone? Would they close in on me immediately, or would they follow me around first to toy with me?

I was in the middle of silently debating whether it would be better to head directly to my bike from the office or just wait around behind the building and have done with it when I realized Jenna was still yammering. "…exceptionally well-dressed. There were three blondes, one that was sort of a brunette, and two with jet-black hair. Gorgeous, all of them." Jenna fanned her face, only slightly exaggerating for dramatic effect. "I couldn't tell which one I was getting a crush on."

Six.

"So many?" I commented casually, though my mind was racing down an entirely new avenue. "Seems odd for them to all come in together like that unless there was an awful lot of paperwork. How many scholarships are they giving out?"

"Oh, twenty. Ten for undergrads, five for masters, and five more for Ph.D.s like yours." She blinked and flushed more deeply. "I probably shouldn't tell you this, but I think you're a shoe-in. The minute they saw your application, they were riveted."

I turned away so Jenna wouldn't see my struggling expression. "That sounds encouraging," I mumbled around the lump in my throat. Ignoring the ache in my bones, I stooped down beside the table, pretended to retrieve something from the floor, and sniffed at the conference chairs. Too many years of smoke inhalation had made my sense of smell much less sensitive, but it was functional enough at the moment.

Fresh baked bread. Morning dew._ Easter lilies._

"Hey, Jenna," I said, straightening up and trying to get my voice back down to a normal pitch, "why don't you go on home? I'll finish here and lock up when I'm done."

"Thanks, Bella." Her sigh of relief was loud and overdone, as if I rescued her from a final lap after she'd run three miles. Or underdone, considering she'd been in the presence of six predators and wasn't massacred. "And thank you for coming in so late for this. I owe you."

Somebody certainly did.

Accessing the university's financial aid records was simple. My undergrad scholarships were given to me by the school, under general titles related to my major. Not "The Matthewson Fund" or "The Cullen Trust" or anything with a family name. Simple. Anonymous, at least to me at the time I received the awards, and I never had reason or desire to seek further information about that until now. I wondered what name they'd used back then, if it would be McCarty or something else I might recognize. Or maybe it hadn't been Them at all, and I just caught a lucky break. A few keystrokes, a little detective work, and I knew who actually funded my education.

Anthony Masen.

Shit.

While I grabbed my uncomfortable shoes and shut down my computer, I noticed that Jenna left the "Matthewson" paperwork at Marissa's workstation. A sunshine yellow sticky note clung to the front page of the file, obviously from the stack of post-its on her desk, with a telephone number scrawled across it. A Canadian phone number, but not local. No name, but I still recognized the neat, feminine pen strokes from borrowed trigonometry notes, even after all these years.

Shit, shit, _shit_.

I cradled my forehead in my hands. Think, Bella, think. Get home first.

The minute I stormed into my apartment, I called my cab. I had just enough time to toss my trench coat at a coat hook and change into my street clothes and leather before the taxi arrived.

* * *

_**Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. All recognizable characters and song lyrics are the property of their respective copyright owners. Portions of Stephenie Meyer's original work are reprinted, but no copyright violation is intended. References to real places and groups are used fictitiously, and certain elements of history are ignored. This story is in no way meant to reflect actual criminal events or territorial claims of gangs or motorcycle clubs in Vancouver or any other location.**_


	12. 11 2013 Part 3

**2013 Part 3**

September 2013

The Chatterbox

Vancouver, BC

"Bella?" Marty said worriedly, seeing the look on my face. "What is it, hon? I thought you had plans."

"Jack Daniels," I choked out through my clenched jaw as I slapped my cab fare on the bar. "No ice, make it a double shot, and start a tab. Bring another when I'm done."

Marty looked at me uneasily but handed me my first drink. "Should I call Ben?"

I shut my eyes. "_God_, no!"

After refusing Marty's offer to talk with a silent, emphatic shake of my head, I went to the jukebox with my change in hand and made my selection before heading back to my corner table. "Fuck!" I hissed to myself, draining my glass as the jukebox wailed at me: _I could lose myself…I could curse like hell…_ The second drink would be weak if Marty cut it with water, but this one would be strong enough to compensate if I slammed it. "Fucking hell."

My next drink came shortly after, brought to me by Marty herself instead of Danny Jr., along with a plastic cup of ice water and a warning that I'd get nothing stronger than beer after that, or I'd get cut off and sent home early, and damned if Marty cared whether that was embarrassing or not. Brown had never been so stringent with me about this—in point of fact, no bartender I'd ever met could pull this shit on someone who wasn't even drunk yet, not if they expected to stay in business—but Marty had become excessively protective and maternal since Brown's doctor referred him to an oncologist for further testing two weeks ago. I fully expected her to get worse until the results came back. She looked more worried about _me_ at the moment, and I knew why: I hadn't sat at this table and set my empty glass in front of the empty seat in years. I nodded at her and gulped down more firewater. Then a beer. And then another, and another, as I tried in vain to numb the ache…

_Time heals all wounds for your kind._

What the fuck do you know about my kind?

_Bella, you're in pain. You need to relax so you can heal._

Goddamn right I'm in pain.

"No telling how many tears I've sat here and cried," I sang into my fourth beer. Or maybe it was my fifth. I hadn't drunk this much in so long. "Or how many lies that I've lied, telling my poor heart…_he'll_ come back someday!"

_I told you I'm not going anywhere…as long as it makes you happy…as long as it's what's best for you…_

You sick bastard. You sick, sick bastard. All my hard work, everything I thought I earned…it was all a fucking lie. Because _you_ thought it would be best.

_Bella._

Fuck off._ Aan dang k'yaaw g̱a hll ḵ'aawuu g̱as ga—I will sit here and wait for you. _And you will never come. You'll just mail my boss a goddamn check.

_Bella?_

I looked up at the empty seat across from me.

No.

I shook my head, eyes tight against the apparition in front of me, willing it away. But when I opened my eyes again, the seat still wasn't empty.

"Alice?"

The figment smiled sadly and nodded, dressed not in the juvenile fashion I remembered, but in a mature, light-colored business suit, her skin reflecting sky blue under my favorite neon lights. She eased her hand forward, palm up, anticipating me. With a nervous glance around the bar, I reached carefully across the table and gingerly pressed a finger to her knuckle.

"_Dang stl'aay k'aw ga!_"

Confused, topaz-rimmed eyes pierced my own, shifting with a little shake of her head. "What?"

Understanding at last, I pulled my hand away and wrapped it around my cup. "Did you know, Alice?" I had enough presence of mind to whisper. "Did you know what he was doing?"

A frown. "No, not at first. He wouldn't let me look for you after we left Forks because he knew if I did, I'd just interfere, and he wanted you to have a chance to start over. And then, after only eleven days with us, he left the family, said he wanted to see the world, and asked me not to stick my nose in his future, either."

I took another swig of my draft. "And you obeyed."

She had the decency to look away, her bizarrely colored irises focused on the concrete floor. "Yes."

I chuckled. "Well isn't that just fucking perfect?"

Marty appeared at my side, looking uneasily from me to Alice. "Can I get you anything?" she asked, avoiding Alice's eyes.

"She doesn't drink _alcohol_," I sneered, silently daring Alice to argue. There was a time when I would've paid money to see Alice get drunk. Now, not so much.

"Nothing for me yet, thank you," Alice answered, giving Marty what was meant to be a wide, charming smile. Marty recoiled a little at the strange sight of immortal white skin and bright teeth under the glowing lights. She mumbled something and beat a hasty retreat to the safe zone behind the bar.

"Bella—" Alice began.

"No," I cut her off. "Don't make excuses. I cared about all of you, and you all walked out on me. And worse, none of you ever looked back, not even _you_, the only one who _could_ look from a distance, the only one who could see what was happening to me. I never got so much as a fucking postcard acknowledging my existence. What do you think that told me about my value? About love? Tell me right now, Alice, what can you possibly say to make that okay?"

She looked as if she might cry if she were able. "I finally decided that Edward and his little order could go to hell, and I checked on you the summer after you graduated from high school. You looked okay, going to work, talking to people, getting ready for college, but you never seemed to connect with anyone, and I wondered if maybe I should just go get you." She took a deep breath, as if she needed oxygen to keep steady. "But then I saw what you were planning to do to Edward's piano."

I shook my head violently, scooting back against my seat. "Don't."

The words came unwillingly, as if she had to force them from her mouth. "He was out of the country. I tried to get a message to him…"

"Don't you dare," I growled in desperate denial. "Don't you sit there and tell me I've been fighting against this misery by myself all these years because you saw me have a temper tantrum when I was young and stupid and in pain!" All that time…for nothing.

"I didn't want to make you feel even worse by showing up and reminding you of what he did." Alice actually wrung her hands—much too human, even for a pretender like her. She knew her argument was weak. "Can't you understand that?"

"Bullshit," I argued. If she saw me torching the piano, she saw me taking things from the rest of the house, too, personal things, not just extra clothes. "Even if you thought I didn't want to see Him again, why would you think I didn't still need _you_? You were like my own sister!"

"I'm sorry, Bella. I did check on you," Alice continued shamefully. "I didn't completely abandon you. I saw you at college, studying and going out with schoolmates. And I saw you come here and make friends with people, and for the first time, I saw you _smile_. I didn't want that to fall apart, and I knew it would if any of us came back."

"You stupid _bitch_," I slurred, earning a shocked stare. Another swallow of my drink slid over my tongue. "You think that makes it all right? Did you see me getting drunk every week and getting angry at an empty fucking chair? Didn't you think maybe that was a problem you should have _done_ something about?"

"Yes, I saw it," Alice answered in a hushed voice, leaning closer across the table. "Eventually. At first I only looked for you periodically, once every month or so, and sometimes I'd see you at this table. I thought it was a phase, because you didn't act that way when you went home for the summer, but after a couple years it became clear that it was a habit." It made me want to smack her, the way she spoke of some of the hardest years of my life, reducing them to a few minutes of discomfort. "So I got in touch with Edward and told him. That's when I learned he funded your scholarships. I begged him to come here and see the situation for himself, and after that he started to watch over you—"

"You _sent_ him here?" I hissed. God, I was so stupid. Milestones of my life replayed through the haze of alcohol with a newly skewed perspective. This went way beyond tuition money—he always did like wasting money on shit he didn't really want. "How did you convince him to come to Vancouver? How long was he _here?_ Why didn't he get off his fucking high horse and speak to me? No, don't answer that. I already know." Since he made it clear he didn't give a shit about me as a person the day he left, I could only assume he came here as a favor to Alice, nothing more, especially if she had to _beg_ him. Certainly he hadn't done anything to stop me from drinking, even though that seemed to be the reason she wanted him here (this, from the same guy who got pissy whenever I drank caffeinated soda). Conversation would have just given me false hope. "Jesus H. _Fucking_ Christ, Alice!"

"I told him to talk to you," Alice said softly, "to stop being such a chicken shit and face you like a man. But he said he thought you were getting better over time. You were doing so well at school, and you looked so happy when you were fixing those motorcycles. Edward swore to me he would take care of you, so I…I just…"

"You just let him stalk me and drop his little fucking hints all over my goddamn life, while you watched and did _nothing_," I accused, trying not to raise my voice as I remembered all the nights I thought I was going crazy, insomnia so bad I wanted to smash my own head in, the drunken mental conversations, and when I finally did get to sleep, all the dreams of his voice, of his arms around me. How much of that did he witness? What was the point to any of it? _Sg̱aana g̱id ids iijii anag̱uun—the Supernatural Being is watching out of curiosity._ "That's just great, Alice. Who was the real chicken shit, you or him?"

"Bella, I'm _sorry_!" Alice's apology came out more like a plea. "He wouldn't come forward, no matter what I said. He spent all his time watching over you from a distance. Once you started seeing Ben, Edward backed off and asked me to give everyone their privacy. My watching you wasn't making your life better—nothing I ever did made your life better. If anything, I just made things worse by invading. Since I failed you with that _catastrophe_ of a birthday party, and my visions never did any good anyway, I felt like I owed it to both of you to stop meddling with your lives without permission. So I made a vow to myself, a _real vow_, Bella, to stop looking for either of you." She spread her fingers flat across the table, closing her eyes for four seconds, lips trembling and face strangely reverent, like she was praying.

I stared unabashedly, unable to believe Alice would ever resist looking for anyone's future. I couldn't reconcile this strange woman's assertion with the girl who had poked her nose into every single facet of my life, both profound and mundane, with or without invitation. The Alice I remembered didn't stop looking for someone. Not if she really loved them.

"If you knew he wasn't going to speak to me," I said slowly, not entirely sure I wanted to hear the answer, "why didn't you come yourself?"

"It wasn't healthy for you to keep obsessing over someone who had no plans to make contact," she continued sadly, "and with Ben around—"

"Stop using Ben as an excuse," I glowered. "I didn't start seeing him until nearly five years after you left."

Alice sighed and nodded in acknowledgement. "I know. I just…I kept hoping Edward would change his mind. He made his future so hard to predict sometimes, and there were a few times when he almost…" she trailed off and shook her head, as if ridding herself of an unwanted thought. "In the end, it was always the same with him. All the could-have-beens amounted to nothing, and the years passed so quickly, and then you had Ben, and I could tell he wasn't like the others. All I wanted for you, more even than for you to be with Edward, was your happiness. With Ben around, it looked like maybe you could finally get on with life and get over my brother. But you couldn't do that with me in the picture."

"Well it sure as hell wasn't a walk in the park with you out of the picture," I sneered. Maybe her years passed quickly, but mine were long and wearing, and if she'd given my life more than a cursory glance between shopping trips, she might have realized that. "Goddamned know-it-alls with god complexes, all of you. Love me and leave me and come back to haunt me, _arranging_ the circumstances of my life instead of talking to me about it, then acting like your hands were tied. Why'd you have to come here now and stir me up like this if you were so bent on staying out of my fucking way? I had _plans,_ Alice! Now you've gone and screwed my head all up just by being here!"

"You graduated years ago," she explained, "and Edward hasn't contacted us in all that time. I didn't think you'd still be in Vancouver, certainly not in the university financial aid office; I didn't even know I should look. We weren't trying to intrude on your life, I swear."

Intrude on my life. Like I intruded on theirs.

"Believe me," she whispered, "if I'd known you were going to be in that office today, we wouldn't have come." That made perfect sense. Jenna called me in at the last possible minute; Alice wouldn't have seen me there ahead of time, not if she was already expecting just another tedious business meeting. If I hadn't been there, or if she'd seen me and warned the family away, I would have gone on with life as I knew it, and so would they.

Swallowing the last of my beer, I gave her the best piercing gaze I could manage and tapped on the table with both index fingers. "Then why are you here?"

"Bella!" Alice cried in dismay. Personally, I didn't see that she had any right to feel that way. "You're confused right now. I understand that. But can't you see that I'm here because I love you?"

That was _it_—I couldn't take this shit anymore. I drained the cup of water and got to my feet. "Marty," I yelled, attracting a few curious stares from the other bikers, "call my cab!"

"Let me take you home," Alice pleaded.

"Whose home, Alice _Matthewson_?" I growled, yanking some bills out of my wallet to cover my drink tab. Take me home, indeed. _Never trust anyone you can't prove exists._ "You gonna drag me back to Forks? You gonna kidnap me and take me to your little vampire lair in East Jesus Nowhere? _This place_," I pounded the table twice with my fist, "is my home. What the fuck do you know about that, huh? What do you know about _anything_?"

"I know you're drunk," she uttered softly, "and I know you're more likely to do something stupid, like get on your bike and try to run away. The roads are wet, and you'll have an accident."

"Oh, did you _see_ that, Alice?" I hissed, wincing as I put pressure on my bad leg. "Now that you finally decided to pay attention?"

"I _will_ see it if you don't let me come home with you." She looked up at me, a childlike expression on a blue-skinned face. "Please, Bella. At least let me follow your cab so I can be sure you make it to your apartment safely."

_Let me,_ she said. Like I'd be able to stop her. Like she suddenly gave a rat's ass about my safety. "Go fuck yourself."

Without further pause, I turned away from her, trying to remain upright and keep what was left of my dignity intact. Just as I started to signal for Danny Jr. to come help me to the door, I heard Alice's wilted murmur:

"Happy Birthday, Bella."

Goddamn it.

* * *

Footnotes:

Oncologist: cancer specialist

_Aan dang k'yaaw g̱a hll ḵ'aawuu g̱as ga. _(Haida) I will sit here and wait for you.

_Dang stl'aay k'aw ga!_ (Haida) Your hand is cold!

_Sg̱aana g̱id ids iijii anag̱uun._ (Haida) The Supernatural Being is watching out of curiosity.

_**Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. All recognizable characters and song lyrics are the property of their respective copyright owners. "My Last Goodbye" is a song by Kenny Wayne Shepherd, and "Neon Moon" is by Brooks and Dunn. Portions of Stephenie Meyer's original work are reprinted, but no copyright violation is intended. References to real places and groups are used fictitiously, and certain elements of history are ignored. This story is in no way meant to reflect actual criminal events or territorial claims of gangs or motorcycle clubs in Vancouver or any other location.**_


	13. 12 2013 Part 4

**2013 Part 4**

September 2013

Ground Floor Lobby

Marine Drive, UBC

"Goddamn it!" I screeched as I passed the entrance to the corridor with a music practice room. "Can't you practice in the daytime like everybody else? At least close the goddamn door so the soundproofing will work!"

"Hush, Bella," Alice said, pressing the button for the elevator and silencing the RA on duty with a glare. "It'll stop soon."

"Fucking music majors. Every fucking weekend," I grumbled, leaning against the tiny girl as the intricate notes played on. Two piano majors and a music therapy student lived in my building, and several more in the building next door, and they were always pulling this shit, especially that bitch from the second floor who fancied she was giving everyone a 'free concert.' Apparently she couldn't fathom the idea that some people didn't like piano music. Reason number forty-seven to move off-campus. "Inconsiderate, shitsucking motherfuckers."

I thought I heard Alice sigh and mutter tiredly as the doors shut behind us and the little cube sped upward. Like she was annoyed or some shit, never mind that getting me home was her idea. Like she could actually get _tired._ In a louder voice, she said, "You drink too much. I don't see how you can maintain your liver, much less your degree program."

"You know jack shit about how much I drink," I pointed out, listening for the 'ding' that signified the top floor. "How long has it been since you looked for me again?"

Alice sighed as I led her down the hall on my floor. "Three years. I still don't like it, and I'm sure Edward feels the same, although why he never did anything about it is beyond me."

"_Edward_ can kiss my cherry-red _ass_," I affirmed. Loudly. "And so can you, for that matter. The last person who should be lecturing me on my drinking habit is a _vampire_. _Pinches mentirosos y pulgas blancas…_"

Alice chuckled, taking my keys from me and opening my front door. "You may have a point."

"If you'll excuse me, I need to pee. Make yourself at home," I said with a wave, feeling a little better now that I was back at my place. I transferred to a campus studio apartment after Shalice finished her MBA. Initially she suggested getting an apartment together in town, but the one she wanted was too far from the university where I both worked and studied at all hours, so I declined. Shalice was now living with her fiancé and working as a financial advisor at Royal Bank here in Vancouver. We still had lunch or dinner together at Banana Leaf as often as our schedules would allow. I didn't think I'd be mentioning any of this to her.

Before I went back into the living area, I took a few extra moments to clean off my make-up, brush my teeth, take my birth control, splash cool water on my face…the usual human routine. Alice made me wait ninety-six months; she could wait more five minutes. Another look in the mirror revealed bags under my eyes as I contemplated my bizarre reality._ I have a vampire in my apartment. Who used to be my sister. And I cussed her out. In at least two languages._ Was it really only a few hours ago that I was doing something as normal as getting dressed for work? Worst. Birthday. Ever.

"I don't know if you've ever thought about it or not," Alice said quietly when I emerged from my tiny bathroom and turned on the lights, "but we did what we had to do to keep you safe from Victoria."

"Thanks," I mumbled, hooking my leather jacket on one of my coat hooks, divesting myself of my billfold and jewelry in the wooden bowl on the small dining table. Alice had already placed my keys there for me. "She's dead then, I take it?"

Alice nodded. "Carlisle and Esme wanted to respect your privacy, but they were furious with Edward's decision to leave you alone without protection. They called in a favor from one of Carlisle's acquaintances about a month after we left Forks. Once we got a bead on Victoria's location…"

"I don't need the details," I replied, sitting down to remove my boots and socks. "Do I need to worry about Laurent?"

Alice met my eyes, and there was a strain there, but no explanation. "No."

That would have been the moment to ask her what she expected me to do if any other vampires ever came for me, but I didn't. It was enough that they had dealt with the known threats, which was more than I expected from them. It had been many years now since I accepted that I had to take my chances like every other human around me instead of relying on immortals to bail me out. If there was one lasting gift their kind had given me, it was not to fear death.

"Thank your parents for me." I swallowed thickly, remembering their faces as Alice reached over and fingered Esme's all-weather coat with startled recognition and _remorse? joy? _in her eyes. "And tell them I'm sorry for breaking into the house. I hope I didn't scare away any buyers."

"Don't worry about that," Alice smiled, the strange emotions melting away from her face instantly. "They understood. Emmett cleared away the mess a few years back and made repairs. We can't find a buyer for it anyway, other than some mildly interested Saudi oil baron who I'm afraid would most likely get lynched. We'll probably just transfer it to different names for a few more decades until the economy picks back up."

Retrieving a glass from a cabinet and filling it with water, I snorted lightly at the immortal views of modern finance, real estate, and racism—all problems that they expected to just go away if they waited around long enough—then shied away from that and thought of Esme and how much love she put into making that house a home. "How is everyone?"

"About the same," Alice answered, not quite able to pull off the casual tone she was aiming for. I sipped at my water, my eyes on her troubled face. "I can send for them if you like. Our hotel isn't far."

"I—no," I said quickly, trying to stifle a nervous laugh. "I'm…very drunk right now, and I wouldn't want Esme to see me like this." A hundred reactions passed through my imagination as I tried to picture an unchanged Esme meeting a very different me. That was definitely a conversation I needed to be sober for. "Just…how are they?"

"Doing well," she assured me. "Carlisle is specializing in a new cardiac surgery technique. Esme is an architect for a construction company in Calgary."

Calgary. That was only about a thousand kilometers from Vancouver. The trip would take me around twelve hours. Less than that if I pushed the engine and ignored a few traffic laws, but there were so many curves on that highway, and I'd have to pack light. Maybe I could take the car instead, if it would hold up…

"Rosalie's still full of herself," Alice went on as I retrieved a few pieces of sourdough bread, "and Emmett still puts up with it. The longer I know them, the more I think he actually thrives on it." She smiled with something that looked like pride. "Jasper hasn't had a single accident since your birthday party. Not once. The difference is amazing."

"Glad to hear it," I nodded, shredding my bread slices into irregular pieces on the counter top. "And how are you?"

"Fine, I suppose," she answered, not really answering at all, her smile faltering briefly as she considered her shoes. Then the shield was up once more, the practiced grin back. "We had to do the high school thing again, but we're done with it for a while. I went to cosmetology school, and Jasper's selling pre-owned cars, believe it or not." I could believe that, actually—who better to convince someone to pay asking price for used Buicks? "Rose opened up her own garage like she always wanted. She and Emmett run it together."

"Really?" I said with a raised eyebrow, taking a long swallow of water as I played with my bread, rolling it into little balls. For a fleeting moment, I imagined myself talking automotive maintenance with Rosalie, wondering what she thought when she read my scholarship application, if she'd approve of the work I'd done on my bike over the years, if she'd want her tools back. Now that we had something in common, would we actually get along?

"Yeah," Alice's grin faded. "The engine grease helps conceal her age when she smears it on her face, so I think she may be able to stay on a few years longer than usual before she has to sell and start over." With a deliberate blink, she cheered again. "We've all taken up local small business investments, and philanthropy." This was accompanied by a nod in my direction. "Makes it harder for everyone to get together like this—we're supposed to be hunting on Mt. Fromme this weekend—but we make the time. Other than that, we're…well, we don't change, really."

Of course they didn't. I chewed thoughtfully on a piece of bread. What difference did it make if they were a day's ride away? Why was I sitting here fantasizing about some grand, heartfelt reunion with my estranged vampire family? They made time to see each other, but they were 'respecting my privacy.' They'd been doing it since Day One of our separation for _exactly_ eight years. I should do the same.

"I missed you," Alice said in a small voice. "We all did."

"Save it," I groaned, pressing another ball of sourdough into the general shape of a flat circle. "If you start telling me how hard it's been on everyone not to have me around, I'm going to set something on fire." Alice had Jasper, Rosalie had Emmett, and Esme had Carlisle. They were all complete in each other. _Maybe,_ my heart whispered, _that's why Edward left them._ They stopped looking for their own brother and son years ago. Perhaps the years apart were swift for them—after all, it wasn't exactly the first time Edward had taken an extended leave of absence from his family—but they knew what could happen to a human when nearly a decade elapsed. Esme, for all the love she once showered on me and her house, left both behind without a goodbye. I would not listen to lies about how they missed me. I sure as hell didn't want to look into Esme's eyes as she made up some shit about loving me like a daughter after all this time. Renee and I could barely stand each other, but we still kept in touch.

"Not looking for me didn't keep you out of _my_ life," I reminded Alice. "It kept _me_ out of _yours._ If that's what you had to do to move on and be happy, at least admit it. It wouldn't be the first time I was put last. Hell, it's not even the first time _today._" I used my thumbnail to make little indentions in the flattened bread, forming a slightly curved cross in the center. "Even if I could make myself believe you… God, Alice, I don't know what's worse, that you didn't miss me and you're standing here lying to my face about it, or that you _did_, and you never did anything about it, none of you. Not even when I was lying in the hospital, screaming for you."

"Screaming?" Alice asked quickly, looking genuinely shocked. "When were you…what happened?"

"An accident." My eyes shifted to my leather jacket, which still bore the scrapes of gravel from this summer. "Two years ago." I shifted onto my good foot automatically, hiding my other foot behind it. Alice noticed, but instead of elaborating for her, I just placed the sour wafer in my mouth.

"You were calling for us?" Her voice shook a little; I didn't think I was imagining that.

"Just you, Alice." Bread clung dryly to my throat, refusing to be swallowed. The last of my water washed it down. "I thought for sure you would have seen me, maybe come to check on me or at least called Charlie, but you never did."

Alice made a strange choking sound. "I had no idea." She pressed her palms to her eyes, as if she were suddenly able to produce tears again. "If Edward knew, the son of a bitch never told me." I had a vague memory of a dream of him leaning against striped red-and-brown wallpaper in the dark, scowling at me. Was it even a dream?

"Would it have made a difference if he had?" I asked her with sincere curiosity. "When you made this vow of yours, you had to know I would eventually get hurt, get sick, and someday die. It's inevitable. Which is the part that suddenly makes that unacceptable? That I still missed you, or that Edward might have known about it and didn't inform you of something you were ignoring anyway?"

The pale girl pulled her hands back to her sides and looked up at me, regret shining from her gold-ringed pupils. "I'm so, so sorry, Bella."

"Yeah, you said that already." I cleaned away my breadcrumbs and washed my glass. "Doesn't change anything, Alice. You chose to stay away and stop being my family—you can't blame Edward for that."

"Bella, I know I went about everything all wrong. But you have to understand, Edward said—"

"I don't have to understand anything," I said coldly, standing my glass upside down in the empty sink to dry. "Edward's not the head of your coven, and he's not your father. You're supposed to be a grown woman. Stop acting like you weren't in charge of your own choices."

The apartment grew quiet again, the tiny vampire standing stock still while I moved away from the cramped area that served as my kitchenette and into the main living space. My jeans chafed against my waist, so I slid them off and hunted for pajama bottoms. There went that tiny gasp I remembered from my youth. I could only guess what was upsetting her more, the healed injuries or the utter lack of modesty. She knew me to be accident prone, so a mangled leg shouldn't have surprised her, but when I was a young girl with a broken leg who needed help showering, she'd only known me to wear bikini-cut cotton underwear. Virginal stuff. Black thongs probably didn't fit into whatever idea she still held about my personality.

"Nice place," Alice said more conventionally. "Simple, but nice."

"I know it isn't much to you," I said tiredly as I gave up on the search for clean flannel pants and decided to just sleep in my favorite 'FUCK Y'ALL' t-shirt. "But like everything else, I had to work my way up to this."

"No, you didn't," Alice said gently. Glass-eyed, I stared after her as she silently flitted to the closet. God, it had been forever since I'd seen anyone _flit_ anywhere, and my eyes weren't accustomed to the sight anymore. Without making a sound, she stooped down to the closet floor and retrieved my safe, so light in her little arms.

"You didn't have to work your way up to this or anything else," Alice reminded me, placing the safe on my kitchen counter. "You didn't have to work like a dog all these years to pay for school and books and vehicle maintenance and food and a decent place to live. You could have lived off this for at least ten years, longer even. But you didn't. You did everything on your own." Her smile was different now. Proud of me. I almost hated to disillusion her.

"Everything," I scoffed. "I thought I got those scholarships because of all my hard work, but no, Edward paid my tuition." Every scholarship I'd received after I started working in the financial aid office was from a different donor, but never from a donor who I remembered supporting anything else. He probably funded my research project last year, now that I thought about it. We got our grant from a rich philanthropist, supposedly from New Brunswick, Mr. Ian M. Jörn. _I Am Yourn._

"Yes, he did," Alice replied patiently. "But he didn't bribe anyone to accept you or give you a full scholarship, though he could have. He gave you just enough to give you the option of coming here and the ability to stay. No more than that."

"Alice Cullen," I ground out slowly, "you know as well as I do that I came here because I was poor and this school offered me the most money. I applied for at least thirty private scholarships that would have allowed me to go anywhere in the Northern hemisphere if I'd been awarded even one of them, but somehow I wound up in Vancouver? The sun almost never shines and it's always cold and raining, but I'm only five hours away from the nearest parental authority in case there's an emergency your brother thought I'd be too weak to handle. Yes, I stayed here because I loved it, but I enrolled here initially because Edward _lured_ me. If you try to tell me Edward's scholarship wasn't a ploy, I think I may slap you for insulting my intelligence."

"Don't worry, I won't," she answered, looking slightly embarrassed. "You'd only break your hand."

"Take your money," I mumbled, tripping over to the safe. It took an extra minute to remember, but I pressed the appropriate combination of buttons to swing the door open. "It's all here. Three hundred grand, American. I was going to use it to buy myself a Harley when I finished my bachelor's degree, but it turned out to be unnecessary. So here you go. It was yours anyway." Good riddance.

"I don't want it," Alice grimaced.

"Neither do I," I answered, pulling the stacks of hundreds out and tossing them haphazardly across the counter, pushing the whole lot in her direction. "Take your money, or I'm going to give it away to charity."

"It's not my money."

I left the cash sitting in plain sight, shutting my private documents away and hauling the heavy safe back to my closet. "I got it from your drawer in your bedroom," I grunted over my shoulder. My leg was killing me now, but damned if I was going to ask for help from a Cullen. "If it's not yours, it must be Jasper's—I suppose he felt guilty about what happened or whatever. Give it back to him. Tell him…I appreciate the thought, I guess." I took deep breaths and wiped the sweat from my forehead, tired from the effort.

"It's not his either."

I blinked and stared across the room, looking her directly in the eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"Jasper and I didn't leave any money, Bella." Alice looked away from me, frowning at something in the kitchen I couldn't see. "It's not ours."

No. She was playing a trick on me. "Then whose was it?" I felt myself swaying as the combination of alcohol, exertion, and massive drama finally became too much for my equilibrium. Dizzy, I leaned backwards against my closet door.

"Mine," a different voice answered as I slid to the floor.

* * *

Footnotes:

_Pinches mentiroso__s y pulgas blancas…_ (Spanish) Damn liars and white fleas…

_**Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. All recognizable characters and song lyrics are the property of their respective copyright owners. Portions of Stephenie Meyer's original work are reprinted, but no copyright violation is intended. References to real places and groups are used fictitiously, and certain elements of history are ignored. This story is in no way meant to reflect actual criminal events or territorial claims of gangs or motorcycle clubs in Vancouver or any other location.**_


	14. 13 2013 Part 5

_**Happy Mother's Day!**_

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* * *

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2013 Part 5

September 2013

Bella's Apartment

Marine Drive, UBC

"_Tell me another one," I laughed, stretching out my legs on our picnic blanket, though the 'picnic' part was just for me, plump white grapes, scarlet summer strawberries, and cold ginger ale in a wine glass. My shoes were somewhere nearby, kicked off so that I could feel my toes in the soft grass. "Please?"_

"_Lord Byron, or Thomas Moore?" Edward offered, as if he were giving me a choice between decadent desserts._

"_Moore." I reached up and tucked a stray bit of hair behind his ear, watching as a sunbeam escaped from behind a cloud to touch a finger of light on Edward's cheek. "He was a songwriter, like you."_

"_Your wish," he smiled, stroking my face with a plucked wildflower, which was almost as pleasurable as his lips on my skin, "as always, is my command."_

"_Grow to my lip, thou sacred kiss,  
__On which my soul's beloved swore  
__That there should come a time of bliss,  
__When she would mock my hopes no more.  
__And fancy shall thy glow renew,  
__In sighs at morn, and dreams at night,  
__And none shall steal thy holy dew  
__Till thou'rt absolv'd by rapture's rite.  
__Sweet hours that are to make me blest,  
__Fly, swift as breezes, to the goal,  
__And let my love, my more than soul  
__Come blushing to this ardent breast.  
__Then, while in every glance I drink  
__The rich o'erflowings of her mind,  
__Oh! Let her all enamour'd sink  
__In sweet abandonment resign'd,  
__Blushing for all our struggles past,  
__And murmuring, "I am thine at last!"_

God, how much did I have to drink last night? I didn't remember getting myself to bed, but surely I was not still so drunk that I was hearing what I thought I was hearing. Sure enough, though, there it was: humming. Cold arms clasping me close, so familiar yet so foreign. Something cool, affectionately nuzzling my ear, my throat. I hadn't had this particular dream in _ages_.

_You're so soft. So beautiful._

Don't do this to me.

_Do you want me to leave?_

Does it matter what I wanted? You left anyway.

_Bella, are you awake?_

I clenched my eyes shut, forcing the red glow shining through my eyelids to appear black. It felt as though I _should_ be waking up now, like I'd slept long and deep for a change, and yet…this dream was entirely too vivid and real. Ben's arms were never this cold unless he'd been out in the snow, and I never told him how much I secretly liked that. Mumbling for Ben to make some coffee, I inhaled deeply, a prelude to a yawn, when I smelled it:

Red Devil Roses.

No. No no no no no. No.

"Please, Bella. We need to talk."

I tried to shake my head _NO,_ to tell him that I was entirely too hung over and sleepy to talk. It wasn't true—I was still somewhat drunk, maybe, but not hung over. I just didn't want to speak. I wanted the slowly filtering memories of the night before to be a terrible nightmare.

"_Please_."

"Fuck you," I groaned painfully, even as my body involuntarily snuggled closer. "Fuck you, Edward. Fuck your velvet voice, fuck your sex hair, fuck your amber eyes, fuck your piano fingers, fuck your beautiful face. Fuck. You."

"You never said 'fuck' this much when you were younger." He managed to sound almost amused. Magnanimous, even. _Bastard._

"You never _wanted_ to fuck when I was younger," I hissed. "You were content to drive me up the wall, toying with my hormones, making my brain and body and heart all scramble and melt for you, making me love you, and all the while you knew you were just playing a game. Just _pretending_ to be human, isn't that what you told me?"

I felt him wince and press me closer. And to my shame, I couldn't pull away. "I'm sorry. That was cruel."

"Is that all you have to say? 'I'm sorry, that was cruel?' Are you goddamn kidding me? What do you think _this_ is?" I demanded, trying to make myself pull my own body back but only succeeding in clutching his shirt and breathing in more of his scent. "Seducing me and then telling me you didn't want me anymore was far more than just cruel—it was life-altering. Discovering it was your money I stole, even though it was from Alice's room—I don't even understand what the hell that was. Your penance? You found out I was planning to break in, and you wanted me to think it was hers and snatch it so you would find absolution?"

He held perfectly still, barely breathing. "Not exactly…"

"You son of a _bitch_," I cursed him. "You used me as an experiment so you'd know what it was like to be a human, but when you didn't like the result you kicked me to the curb and took off, and then you fucking _paid_ for me."

"Bella—"

"Shut up!" I snarled. "It's bad enough that you left me a pile of cash, tricking me into robbing your _family_ to exact my payment. Finding out you paid my tuition not once, but over and over, that you've been fucking stalking me all these years—God, what is your malfunction, Edward? You just like to toy with me? You love me, then you don't, then you feel bad, then you find new ways to screw with my head. What is _wrong_ with you? Is this how you get your rocks off? Watching me try to drink you away all this time and never doing anything about it? Playing your little goddamn piano to piss me off? Psychological torment? I bet I've been keeping you happy for the last eight years, haven't I?"

"Stop it," he hissed in my ear, making me shiver as his frozen lips grazed my earlobe. "It was nothing like that. I _lied_ when I said I didn't want you, Bella. I wanted you so badly I couldn't see straight, but I knew I was all wrong for you, that I'd eventually kill you. I just wanted you to have a normal life, and you couldn't do that with me there to complicate your existence."

"Right," I groaned, rolling my eyes, even though they were closed. I didn't want to look at him—that way lay danger. "Because abandonment _simplified_ my life. So that's what that was supposed to be."

"I just thought—"

"You thought wrong," I snapped. "You showed me your magical world, then you snatched it away, and you thought I could just go right back to a simple way of life? Forget there was more, that you were alive and breathing somewhere?"

"I wasn't sure," he said, obviously ashamed, or just trying to sound that way, "but I hoped you'd learn to be okay after a while. Humans forget things all the time. I thought life would be less problematic for you after that."

I huffed in disbelief and opened my eyelids a fraction of an inch, just enough to see an all-too-familiar white button-down shirt. I still had one just like it in a beat-up shoebox buried in the back of my closet. "For a mind reader," I said derisively, "you have a terrible grasp of human nature. Nobody's life is simple, or normal, or problem-free. Humanity is all complications and hardship, and life is the sum total of our experiences. I experienced _you_. Did you honestly think I'd forget you like a set of car keys? You were the brightest point in my life, and that dimmed everything that came after. I've relived every moment we spent together over and over again for years. There is no forgetting what we had. Ever."

I felt two icy fingertips under my jaw, and Edward pulled his face back, lifting my chin and coercing me to meet his eyes. The daylight shone behind him, giving him a reddish halo. "I know that, Bella. I loved you. I love you still. I will _always_ love you." Without another word, Edward pressed his lips to mine, forcing my mouth open and sliding his tongue across my teeth.

And my tired, traitorous body molded to him instantly, craving the long-desired coolness after years of too much warmth.

Edward was every place at once, his essence seeping into my flesh, soaking into my muscles, filling my bones. We moaned and strained together, gasping at every new kind of touch, his tongue laving softly at my breasts and tracing every line of my tattoos, my hands sliding up his naked thighs, our panting breaths in symphony with our whispers, our hums and groans, our delighted and pained cries as I guided him to his first orgasm, to my _best_ orgasm, joining each other again and again, slow and fast and slow, I'd never gone at such a gentle pace, marveling with each other's bodies, taking each other to a place we could only reach together, wondering at how I could feel such pure, unchecked ecstasy…

"Asleep! O sleep a little while, white pearl!  
And let me kneel, and let me pray to thee,  
And let me call Heaven's blessing on thine eyes,  
And let me breathe into the happy air,  
That doth enfold and touch thee all about,  
Vows of my slavery, my giving up,  
My sudden adoration, my great love!"

"Who was that?" I said into Edward's chest.

"Keats," he replied expectantly. "I used to whisper it to you at night, as you were falling asleep. Don't you remember?"

I didn't.

"Where did you go?" I asked, my limbs entwined with his, as was my post-coital habit. Every time I tried to adjust my legs between Edward's, he tensed up, probably restraining himself from crushing my knees. I wondered if he'd been doing so the entire time we'd been intimate. "When you were gone for those three years after…after Forks."

"Nunavut," he murmured, placing almost apologetic kisses on my head. "Greenland, Svalbard, Scandinavia. Ellesmere Island, Murmansk, Skaftafell. Places like that. I learned to speak Icelandic."

"I see." Shutting my eyes, I tried to picture a map in my head and realized I'd seen some of those names years ago, when he took me to the Nordic Heritage Museum for his birthday. Basically, he spent three years backpacking around the Arctic Circle. "Did you like it?" I asked, rubbing my fingers absent-mindedly against his skin, vaguely noticing that the friction felt different and didn't cooperate the way I was accustomed to. It didn't stick to mine.

"No, not especially." One of his hands pressed against my shoulder, and it was all I could do to hide the shiver. "There was nothing I really wanted to see."

"Oh." I didn't know what else to say. _I spent most of those three years studying, working, drinking, and fighting with my mother…I found out I like Malaysian food…Why didn't you just come see me?_

My eyes remained closed as I held him, my arm loosely wound around his waist now. No matter how I clung to him, he didn't warm up. Disconcerting. "Edward," I said slowly, still in awe of directly addressing him by name, "I have to know. Did you get me into grad school? Did you cut a check to the department or bribe Dr. West or—?"

"Stop." He kissed me sweetly, so tender. "By the time you applied for grad school, you could speak four languages other than English. Fluently. In your sleep. You didn't need my help to get accepted."

I released a breath I didn't know I was holding.

"I wanted to tell you years ago," Edward said shyly, his bare torso pressed against mine, "your hair is pretty this way." His fingers combed through the strands, a movement that went much quicker now that I only kept it an inch or so past my shoulder.

"Really?" I whispered, pulling my bad leg away from his body and trying to flex it. It wasn't unusual for the muscle to feel stiff and achy when I'd been in bed too long. The pain wasn't in my tissue, though—it was in my bones, a common reaction to the cold, although I didn't usually feel cold at this time of year. "I'd have thought you wouldn't like it so short. You used to love playing with it."

"I do miss the length," he admitted, gently raking his hand down my back, a wistful gesture. "Don't you?"

"Not really." I rolled over and pulled on my t-shirt, quietly glad for its warmth. With a defeated sigh, I fished my despised cane out from under the bed frame and left the bed, making my way to the shelf that held my iPod. According to my alarm clock, it was three in the morning. Something was missing from my shelf. What was it? "My hair's easier to maintain this way," I told him, trying to fill up the silence by drawing out the pillow talk. "Long enough for a ponytail for when I ride, short enough that it's easy to dye it myself."

"Dye it?" Edward frowned, sitting up and throwing the covers off his pale, naked body. "It's still brown."

I found the playlist I was searching for: Chatterbox Jukebox. "To cover the grey." Feeling a little self-conscious, I ran my own hand through the strands at my left temple and tried to see Edward's reaction in my peripheral vision while Bob Seger wished he didn't know now what he didn't know then. Two months had passed since I'd last colored my roots, which might explain why Edward couldn't smell the chemicals. Renee had gone grey early in life, starting to dye her hair when I was only seven. Apparently I took after her in that regard.

"Ah." Edward looked toward the window, rubbing his hand along the back of his neck. There was no physical reason for him to need to do that, obviously, which meant his discomfort was mental. "Right."

Turning back to the bookcase, I finally clicked to the difference: my picture frames. Half of them were neatly stacked face down on the top shelf. I didn't remember doing that at all, and even if I did, I would never have lain them all the way up there. Then I realized _which_ pictures were missing.

Suddenly uncomfortable myself, I crossed the room, hit the lights, and made use of the bathroom, brushing my teeth quickly and ingesting my birth control pill. Edward did not join me, but he took care to make noise as he moved around the apartment, the sound a courtesy for me, or perhaps a long-held habit. Still playing at being human.

While Edward had his turn in the shower, I noticed a folded up piece of paper held up by one of the magnets on my little fridge.

_Dear Bella,  
__I don't know what will happen between the two of you, and I don't want to influence your decision either way. Whatever you need from me, be it my presence or my absence, I will give.  
__Love you, really,  
__Alice  
__(587) 555-1842_

Unsure how to deal with that just now, I placed it back on the refrigerator and put my reading glasses in their case. The money was still on the counter, stacked neatly and pushed against the wall. I covered it with a dish towel and looked out my picture window. The two things I loved about my tiny top-floor apartment: it had some of the most stunning views on campus, and the windows didn't open. At all.

"Why do you always play this song?" Edward asked after we'd both cleaned up, listening as Ronnie Dunn warbled through the speakers of my iPod docking station. His hair flopped over in its glorious disarray as he leaned against the wall and peered through the window himself, seeing things my human eyes couldn't distinguish in the dark and wearing nothing but jet-black boxers. He looked good that way. Natural, like he belonged there. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on my part. "When I watch you at the bar, you look so sad when this song comes on the jukebox, but you keep playing it."

I tightened the sash on my raven-blue silk robe—an ill-fitting relic from Alice and Rosalie's collection, as I was never one to indulge in the purchase of this particular kind of clothing—and poured myself an ounce of whiskey in a glass of ice before adding a full can of soda. Just enough to relax me again. "It's our song," I answered, singing along softly to avoid elaboration. "The jukebox plays on drink by drink. The words of every sad song seem to say what I think…"

Edward looked a little hurt and embarrassed. "Right," he said again. His fingers went through his hair this time. Awkward. "This was the song playing the first time _He_ asked you to dance. And for your first kiss."

We hadn't spoken of Ben at all—we hadn't talked much, period—but I knew this topic would come up eventually. I had avoided Ben's call, which he probably assumed was a reaction to Friday night. In a way, maybe it was, just a little.

"No, Edward," I sighed, taking a swallow of the weak drink in a stiff, practiced gulp, eliciting a disapproving frown in the process. Seven years I'd been talking to Edward in my head when I was drinking or heavily medicated—I didn't know how to hold a conversation with him any other way. "I mean it's _our_ song. Yours and mine."

He smiled morosely then, his eyes liquid and warm as he ambled over to me and gently wrapped his arms around me, placing a kiss on my forehead. "We never did anything like that, did we? Have a song we could sing and dance to, make up pet names for each other, do cute couple things."

Excuse me, _cute_?

"It's not cute," I murmured, lowering my eyes to stare at a random spot on the floor. "This isn't a song with a happy ending. Happy endings are for those Jane Austen novels I used to read and all those poems you recited for me when I was young. I live in the real world, and my real life is painful. I had to learn how to do what I could to muddle my way through it. That means I ride. And I drink." I clicked my tongue, finally admitting this to myself. "Sometimes, a lot."

"You don't _have_ to drink, you know," Edward chided me, eyeing my glass pointedly. "Just like I don't have to drink human blood."

"You didn't _have_ to spend all these years staring at me through other people's eyes after _you_ left," I observed, setting my half-empty glass back on the counter. "You have your addiction, and I have mine."

"Oh Bella, I'm so sorry." He hugged me carefully. How many times did I hear those exact words in my dreams? How many times was it ever real? "I didn't mean to ruin everything for you. I thought I was protecting you by leaving. I didn't mean for you to get like this."

"It doesn't matter what your intentions were," I replied, turning my head to look at a picture on my kitchen wall. Me, sitting on my new bike the day after graduation. Already curvier at the time than I'd ever been before, I'd gained another good ten or fifteen pounds since then, had the two motorcycle accidents, and suffered at least one nervous breakdown, the end results being a huge ass, several cheese-grater-like scars, my arthritic, steel-plated ankle, nerve damage, and very little patience for anyone else's bullshit. "The outcome was this. I am _this_. That's the ugly thing about being human, Edward: things don't always change for the better."

I felt him exhale, his breath flowing over my hair. "Tell me what you want, Bella."

I closed my eyes, keeping my face pressed against Edward's chest. "I'm ready to go forward, one way or the other. If I'm going to be with you, you and I have to become equals, and I'll drink blood and never die. Or I can keep going with the life I have now, stay with Ben as an equal, and I'll drink hard liquor and ride my Harley and pass on someday, maybe in an accident, maybe of cancer or old age. But I can't go either direction like this, with one foot in our vampire past and the other in a human future."

Edward stepped back and hunched his shoulders, coming to my eye level. "Are you saying this is up to me?"

With a shake of my head, I replied, "Never have, never will. I'm saying it's your future, too. How do you plan on spending it?"

He didn't answer right away, suddenly very interested in the vintage neon beer light that hung over my bed, a Christmas gift from Brown and Marty. But I wasn't about to let him avoid the issue.

"Surely this isn't still about our souls, Edward," I remarked, remembering the familiar circular argument that I refused to tolerate ever again. "We just spent hours making love, and we aren't married." God, I had never _made love_ before. I'd never known how to do anything but fuck. A tiny voice in the corner of my mind piped up: _was it making love, or was it just fucking slowly because he was scared to break me?_ "If I were a Christian, instead of an agnostic," I continued, mentally shaking away the troubling little voice and proceeding with my train of thought, "that would mean I'm doomed to hell. You, on the other hand, seem to think you're exempt from that fate because of what you are."

"For me," Edward murmured, "hell has never been a place to fear that I might go when I die. Hell has been the last ninety-five years of my existence, an endless life I didn't ask for, wandering the earth as a monster, wanting to feed on people but still trying to be a decent person. Hell has been an unquenchable fire in my throat, and I never wanted you to suffer that way, to be in constant pain and grow to resent me for it."

"A little late to be worrying about my resentment," I pointed out. It was rude of me, especially since he was finally explaining instead of just brushing my curiosity and concerns aside. But I hated that look in his eye, what I used to call _ancient grief._ He'd always used it as a way for him to play up his age and vampirism as some kind of mental or emotional superiority, when really it was just a century-long pity party. If he really and truly wanted to be with me, he was going to have to move past that, the same way I had to.

Edward continued as though I hadn't spoken. "But after I left you behind…hell was every day for eight years that I wasn't with you. Hell was watching you move on without me, even though moving on was what I thought would be best for you to begin with. Hell has been the last three years, knowing you were sleeping with someone else and never having the courage to do what I wanted, to come to you as a man and make you mine."

I stepped closer to him, taking his hands into my grasp. "Does that mean what I think it means?" I asked, daring to hope, something I'd not done in years.

Edward turned back to me, lowered his head to mine, and gave me a long, slow, precious kiss. "Bella," his stone lips whispered against mine. "I love you more than life itself. I _will_ stay with you, if that's what you want. Can't that be enough?"

I pulled my face back and glared up at him. "No, it can't. It wasn't enough when I was seventeen, and it's not enough now, not when I feel about you the way I do, and not if you claim to love me more than _life_."

The embarrassment was back in his face, and I understood: he'd been using hyperbole. Typical. It was also indicative of a problem: how was I supposed to take anything he said at face value?

"Why can't we just…be?" he wondered, and this time he sounded sincere. "Just like this?"

"That time is past," I informed him, trying to infuse my speech with a little more compassion and a little less bitterness. It was difficult. "You missed it. It's not like we're only a year or two apart anymore. I tried to warn you about this years ago, but you wouldn't listen to me."

"You're seeing someone ten years older than you," he reminded me, his eyes tight.

"Yes, but I'm an adult," I replied firmly. "Do you realize you're physically younger than most of my students? Which is difficult enough to explain, but you're not aging. Even if nobody knows who you really are, you can't just fit into my world like this."

"Why not?" He seemed almost innocent, asking this question.

"Look at me, Edward," I ordered, taking his face into my hands so that he could not turn away. Gazing into his marble smooth, seventeen-year-old face, I knew that my own features had already begun to show the signs of age and wear, things no amount of Revlon Dark Brown #03 Root Perfect could mask: faint laugh lines, bags under my eyes, years of alcohol, sleepless nights, hard work, freezing wind, second-hand smoke. "Really _look_. I'm twenty-six years old, but I look thirty and feel forty. I am not a capricious child anymore. I don't have eight more years to wait for you to decide you're ready to participate in a mutually respectful partnership instead of playing with a porcelain doll. If you're going to choose me, then _choose_ me. If not, leave me in peace."

He remained silent and still, as if I'd spoken a foreign language and needed to provide a translation. I paused to draw a breath, trying to steel myself so that I could say what needed to be said. "You told me once that time heals all wounds for my kind. Problem is: that only works if you don't constantly reopen the wound." I exhaled gustily, looking at my Whale and Thunderbird bracelet sitting beside my house keys. "You can't keep doing this to me. I can't be free if I know you're watching. Either we spend eternity together, or you let me go."

"What about your career, Bella?" Edward asked quietly. "Your education, your friends, your parents…your life? Everything you've been building all these years. Are you really ready to just give that up?"

"You asked me that before," I reminded him, reminiscing about my junior year of high school, so far removed from me and yet standing before me. "You wanted me to go to college, and I've done that. My education will go on forever—yours certainly seems to. Both my parents are remarried and happy. I only see them once or twice a year, if that. And my friends are the kind of people who are used to a certain way of life. Loss is something they all understand. If I tell them it's time for me to go, they'll wish me well or they won't, and they'll think of me and I'll miss them, but they'll go on. It wouldn't be a first for any of them." I looked him full in the face. "So yes, I'd give up my life here. For love. For you."

Edward sighed. "And what about That Man?"

"Don't call him that," I growled instinctively. "He has a name."

Edward lifted an eyebrow but didn't comment on my tone. "Ben."

"Do not make this about Ben." I did my damnedest to ignore the stab of guilt in my stomach. "This is about you and me."

"He's still part of the equation." Edward looked pained as he said this. His complex voice held a barely concealed hopefulness, as well as a number of other things I couldn't pick out. I didn't understand; was he arguing in favor of my joining him, or against it? "Are you really willing to let him go?" Regardless of Edward's strange, dubious motivations, I had to turn my mind to the question. It was valid, after all. I fought the urge to take another hard drink before I answered.

"I would die for him," I said evenly, hating and hurting myself as the next words formed, no matter how true they were. "But Ben wouldn't do the same for me."

"You really believe that?" Edward replied, a funny look on his face.

"I may be intoxicated, but I'm no fool." So many years ago, the boy in front of me had sworn he would die for me, but what did it mean coming from an immortal who hated his immortality? It would mean so much more from Ben, the fragile human who loved his life, but I had no right and no reason to expect it. "My old man's got a kid to take care of, and she has always been his highest priority. He would drop me like a sack of potatoes for her if she asked. Why else do you think he's _not_ _here_?" Hannah was staying with her father for the whole weekend, and when she became hostile and combative and insisted that they needed privacy, and Ben then caved in to her temper tantrum instead of putting her in check, I went along with it without much argument. What was I supposed to say to him? 'I know she just got here, but send her back to her mother?' 'Our date is more important than your kid?' Even if it _was_ my birthday weekend, even if I disagreed with Ben's decision, I swallowed my bitter response, because I was a grown woman, not a child, because I knew what it was like for a girl to need her father, and because she was blood family, and I was…not. "She comes first. She will always come first, and I'll always be last. That's the way it's supposed to be, and that won't change whether I leave him or stay. As long as Ben has Hannah, he'll be fine."

I fought the tide of pain washing over me, while the strangest combination of expressions fluttered across Edward's face: sorrow, relief, shame, and then finally…calculation?

"What _about_ Hannah?" Edward sounded so sure of himself. "There was a picture of her on your dresser—she's beautiful. You've tried to hide it, and she's been difficult lately, but I know she's important to you. If you were changed, you'd never be able to see her again."

He looked through my eyes as if he could see my soul, the way he once had. I shot him a withering glare in return. _Don't._

"I think you _love_ her, Bella."

I slapped him without preamble, just so he'd know how I felt. Or I tried. He had his hand around my wrist before I could strike his face. "Hannah doesn't want me," I hissed through gritted teeth, yanking my hand away and trying not to think of scrawny arms thrown around me in Albuquerque. Those same arms had folded together in spite every time I'd seen her for the past month, those formerly happy brown eyes narrowed with distaste, even disgust, as if I was solely responsible for everything that was wrong in her world. All that animosity was not directed at her father, but at me. I cared so much about her, more than I thought was possible, and she _hated_ me. "Nor does she need me in any way. She has two _real_ parents who love her more than anything or anyone. Human or not, it's not like I'd get visitation rights to see her if I broke up with her dad to be with you. So don't pretend you give a shit about Ben's daughter, and don't you _dare_ try to use how I feel about her as an excuse to keep me human, you miserable, manipulative bastard!"

"I'm sorry," he retracted, realizing that he'd crossed a line. "I didn't mean to…I'm sorry."

"Sure you are," I growled, wiping my eyes quickly. I was growing inured to hearing 'I'm sorry' at this point. They were just empty words. "So, since we've established that I'm not now, nor will I ever be, the most important person to anyone I know, are you going to do what I've asked?" Somebody, somewhere, had to love me best. I _needed_ someone to put me first, and here was my someone. Why else would Edward have been watching me all this time? Why else would he be here now? "This is your chance to have me, Edward. All of me." I looked into his eyes, memorizing the curry-yellow rings, and held up my wrist to his mouth.

He squeezed my hips, kissed the veins on my wrist gently, and slowly met my forehead with his own, intertwining our fingers and lowering our hands. I waited and watched, my focus never deviating from his face. "If you want me, you have to take me," I whispered, "and it has to be forever."

Edward shut his eyes to hide his thoughts from me and pressed his mouth to mine for another kiss. But I saw. His next words, whispered against my lips, confirmed it: "I can't."

Not 'We have to stage your death' or 'You should say goodbye to your friends' or 'I need to call Carlisle to come help me.' Not even 'Sober up first.'

"Why not?" I breathed, trying to hold back a fresh wave of tears. "After all these years, I deserve a real answer. I _demand_ one. Not a long-suffering sigh and a patronizing pat on the head without any kind of explanation, like you're my friggin' father. Not another lie. Tell me _why._"

He took a deep breath. "Because I know—that is, I believe—that once you've been changed, you'll finally realize that this way of life isn't what you want, even with me in it. Maybe not right away, but someday you'll become dissatisfied or accidentally kill someone, and you'll hate me for giving in, for making you a slave to your thirst. And instead of that hate fading over time, as it would with a human, it will fester inside you for hundreds of years, thousands. I can't do that to you."

I swallowed, tasting the liquor and cola that lingered on my tongue. "I see." And I did. I saw he had a real, paralyzing fear, and that he didn't want me to have any regrets. I also saw that he wasn't taking into account that _everyone_ had regrets, because life wasn't so simple that being human guaranteed every decision would be easy and correct, and because there was no happiness without sacrifice. He wasn't considering how happy his former family was with each other, even if they did face hardships. Resisting bloodlust was still his primary concern, the largest thing in his life, no matter how good at it he was after a century, no matter how well the others had overcome it. In point of fact, it was his intentional focus, to the detriment of everything else his endless days had to offer. He lived in a state of mind wherein no one close to him could feel joy; no one could make the best of things. No one could even try. There was no room for what anyone else wanted—no room for what _I_ wanted. Everything was shrouded and polluted by his undead identity crisis and self-imposed eternal guilt complex. _By his immortal, supernatural bullshit._

"Then you need to go," I choked, looking away. "And I don't mean 'go back to shadowing me.' That has to stop. Change me or walk away. I'm not some fish in your aquarium."

"I have to make sure you're protected, taken care of," Edward said softly. "You're the most important thing in my world. I don't want to lose you again, not like that. I can't…I don't know how to live without knowing you're safe."

"Safe?" I retorted with a shaky voice, feeling angry all of a sudden. Eight years of loneliness, heartache, and just _missing_ each other, and when I finally saw him again and asked him to choose option A or B, he chose none-of-the-above because he didn't want to change anything? He'd rather just go on like this than give me the say in my own life? After everything he'd done, everything he'd neglected to do, he still had the audacity to act as though he knew what was best for me? "_Now_ you care if I'm safe? Your parents had to deal with Victoria and Laurent for me while you were bumming around the goddamn North Pole for three years, but you can't live without knowing I'm safe?" Edward frowned and didn't meet my eyes. "Where were you when I was lost in the fucking woods for fourteen hours straight? Or the first time I was trapped inside the Chatterbox during a brawl and had to hide under the pool table? Or both times I lost control of my bike and wound up in an ambulance?"

"In the trees above you, calling 911," he responded, his voice growing strong as he flashed a glare at me. "I was also there when someone tried to slip you Rohypnol while you were out drinking with Shalice, and when a drunk at the bar wanted to pay you to dance with him and you threatened him with a beer bottle instead of asking your boss to show him out. I was there at your first motorcycle rally, when some coke-addled biker tried to follow you to your tent. I was the one who made that Hells Angel who kept _touching_ you crash his bike so the police would apprehend him. And I was in Samoa when a nomad vampire tracked you and tried to come for you through the window you so carelessly left open. I've gone to enormous lengths to keep you alive, no matter how often you insist on putting yourself in danger like some kind of rebellious teenager. Don't tell me I don't care what happens to you! It's all I've _ever_ cared about!"

"Rebellious teenager?" I repeated, incensed. "You stand there in all your immortal seventeen-year-old glory, the epitome of arrested development, having stalked me for _years_ instead of initiating contact like an adult, and you have the nerve to say that to _me_?"

"Well that's what all this biker crap is really about, isn't it?" Edward sniped at me. "Some kind of delayed teen rebellion, since you had to play the adult all those years with your parents? You get off on flirting with danger now?"

I snorted. "This from the speed demon boy who had a garage full of sports cars back in Forks. What are you driving, by the way, that flashy blue Ferrari I saw last week, or the black Porsche Alice followed me home in?"

"I don't risk death every time I get behind the wheel," he hissed. "I don't go courting danger."

I rubbed my temple with two fingers and closed my eyes for a few seconds. Did he really think so little of me, of my motivations? "You're so stuck on what you _think_ I'm doing with my life, you don't actually understand it at all, do you?" I accused. "Apparently danger comes looking for me no matter which country I'm in or what I'm doing at the time. God, I left a window partially open on a warm island, just like every villager I met there. You act like I intentionally slit my wrist and invited every vampire in a five-mile radius in for dinner. If another vampire wanted me bad enough to track me across an entire island nation during monsoon season, a goddamn _window _wasn't going to stop him! Can you even conceive how ridiculous your point is?"

"Would you rather I let you be slaughtered in your sleep?" Edward glowered.

"Slaughtered?" I said stupidly, throwing a hand up. "I was _asleep. _He would have drained me and gone, and I wouldn't have known or cared! I have to say, I didn't have any major accidents or predators after me in the three years you were gone, but I certainly…" He looked horrified, though at which part of my assertion, I didn't bother to ask. My brain was busy catching up to what else Edward said. "Back up," I rumbled, shifting my eyes back to his. "When I wrecked my bike at the canyon, they said a passing motorist called it in…that was you? My _flowing blood_ was right in front of you?"

Edward nodded almost proudly. "It was frightening, but yes. That day I learned that it was possible to resist killing you, that I had the strength of will for it. That's why I feel I can be safe for you now. If you'll have me."

Meanwhile, I followed my thoughts to a place he probably didn't expect. "You mean I was lying there in the gravel and mud, all alone and bleeding out, a thirty-minute drive from the nearest town, and you didn't drink from me, you didn't try to change me, you didn't run me to the hospital or call your father just over in Calgary, you didn't even use your medical degrees to help me? You just sat in a tree and called an ambulance, hoping it would get there in time for someone else to take care of me? Jesus, Edward!" Even Rosalie did more for Emmett, and she didn't know him from her next meal.

"It wasn't like that!" Edward denied.

"Yes, it was!" I refuted. "That's exactly what you did! That's what you _do_! I need you, you watch me suffer, and then you leave! I nearly _died, Edward! _You say I'm the most important thing in your life, but it's like my _humanity_ is more precious to you than my _existence!_"

"I couldn't just snatch you up and change you without your permission, Bella." Exasperation seemed to weigh down his forehead, like this was all going wrong. "You hadn't laid eyes on me in years. The only conversations we'd engaged in took place in your sleep."

"And whose fault was _that?_" I demanded. "You had the perfect opportunity to make me a permanent part of your world, and you didn't take it!"

Edward ran his hand violently through his hair, the sign of anxiety and irritation I remembered so well. "It wasn't exactly an ideal time to have a long discussion about our relationship."

"Yeah, because you couldn't have made a tourniquet or held my hand or ridden in the ambulance with me or anything," I snarled. "Good to know that if I bled out and died waiting for the paramedics to get there, at least you would have avoided an _awkward conversation._"

"Stop it," Edward ordered. "Either you want me to look out for you or you don't, but you can't have it both ways."

"You fucking hypocrite!" I spat. "You've spent the last, what, five years tailing me? Watching me as often as you please, but without having to give me anything I want? Crawling into my bed and kissing my throat when I was dreaming?" He flinched, and something occurred to me: _that's why he was able to be so close to me all night without using his teeth. _"You've had it both ways for years, goddamn it, in the creepiest, most secretive way possible, knowing full well how badly I wanted you to be here when I woke up. Did you think I'd just intuitively know you were around and magically feel better because you watched me sleep? I don't need that juvenile shit, Edward. I need you to man up and be here for me."

"I _was_ here for you! I took care of you the best way I could without interfering," he argued.

"Interfering…" I groaned. Was he fucking serious? "Every human risks death, every day, from the moment they get out of bed. So every time you save me, you are _interfering_ with the natural course of my life. That's the reality of the situation, no matter how you try to dress it up." I covered my eyes with the palm of my hand, trying to regain control of myself. _Calm, Bella. Deep breath._ "It's not that I don't appreciate what you've done for me, but why do you keep protecting me if you're just going to let me die in the end anyway? Tell me, how are you going to protect me from cirrhosis or pneumonia? Or better yet, how are you going to protect me from feeling inadequate and used?"

"What do you mean?" Edward asked, confusion abruptly halting his indignation. "Ben doesn't…does he? I don't watch when you're having sex, but…it never seemed…you always…"

I lowered my hand and stared up at him, raising my eyebrow pointedly.

Horror-stricken, Edward gripped my waist, tight but careful. "I make you feel that way?"

I cradled my head in both hands, unable to believe that someone I'd always thought was so intelligent could be so mind-numbingly stupid. "That's how I've felt every time I thought about you for almost _exactly_ eight years now. That's why I will not be with you if you're not willing to make me your equal. That's why it's called a deal-breaker, Edward."

He hesitated, and for a moment I thought he might have changed his mind. "Can't we talk about other options?"

Oh _hell_ no.

I folded my arms and affixed Edward with my iciest stare. "Like what? You want to share me with Ben? Is that really why you brought him up? Or do you want me to follow you around the world while I get old, pretend I'm your goddamn mother in the daytime and fuck each other at night? Have you thought nothing through, or are you really that depraved?"

Edward's eyes flashed with fury momentarily, and I felt the low growl in his belly, but he controlled his voice. "Bella, please be reasonable."

"Reasonable, my ass," I hissed. "You're just making excuses. There is nothing _reasonable_ about a vampire taking a human lover until the human becomes senile. There's not an alternative compromise between human and vampire; I'm either one or the other, not both. "

"You're not thinking this through, Bella. There are a hundred different things you could change your mind about over the years," he warned me sternly. "What if you decide you want all the things you're so willing to give up right now? What if you miss Hannah too much? What if you want a baby girl of your own, and you can't have one any longer because your undead body won't bear children?"

"A _baby?_" My mouth dropped open, unable to believe this conversation was going this way. "You think I…? How is that even an option?"

"Don't dismiss it." Jesus, he sounded like my _dad._ "You can't get that opportunity back once it's gone. Esme and Rosalie have never stopped grieving for exactly that reason."

I folded my arms the way I did when an undergrad tried to justify not handing in an essay by claiming their hangover was a stomach virus. "Edward, let me ask you something," I snapped. "In the six decades you've known her, has Alice ever wanted a baby?" His eyes darted away from me, and he shook his head _no._ "Yeah, that's what I thought." Why didn't he understand this about me? Hadn't he been paying attention to anything other than physical danger all these years?

"Esme was changed the day her infant died," I recalled. "So of course she's never stopped wanting another one. In case you haven't noticed, I am a completely different person. In fifteen years of fertility, I have never, not once, felt that I might ever want to give _birth_." My lips curled around the word with revulsion, remembering the live birth videos my mother showed me at the age of eleven when I got my first period, complete with episiotomies and c-sections, her attempt at promoting birth control. It worked. "And even if I ever change my mind, what the fuck are you planning to do about it? Have me inseminated like a racehorse? Are you going to be in the delivery room when blood and shit are pouring out of me? What if this hypothetical _baby_ smells even more delicious to you than I do?" At this, Edward's gaze snapped back to mine, his mouth agog. "What happens when it falls and scrapes a knee? Am I going to have to explain why its teenage vampire daddy had to run away? Will you even be able to resist feeding from it long enough to run, let alone stick around and raise it?"

"Stop it," he protested, looking more offended than he had any right to, especially for someone who'd been expounding on the personal tortures of bloodlust within the last two hours. "Just stop."

I met his infuriated eyes with ire all my own. "No, _you_ stop. I've had it up to here with you and your 'other options' that don't make a lick of sense. You're grasping at straws, and we both know it. You asked me what I want, and I told you what I can live with. I'm not going to stoop to cutting myself to force you to bite me. I'm certainly not going to beg Carlisle to do it behind your back so I can spend forever chasing you like some undignified, boy-crazy little girl. I'm worth more than that." I glared at him, a challenge in my eyes. "Or at least I _should_ be."

"At least wait until you've finished your doctorate," Edward tried, desperate and pleading. "Can't you wait that long?"

That might have been perfect, actually. I'd been working so hard all these years, and I wanted to receive the recognition for my accomplishments. But I'd have that many times over as a vampire. What was the point in waiting? Why would it be better for me to be eleven years older than him instead of nine? Why was the answer suddenly _wait just a little longer_ when it had been _no, never _twenty seconds ago?

I held him with a pythonic, penetrating stare, forcing the truth to appear in his expression, realizing his real motivation. "I'm sorry; do you expect me to give you the benefit of the doubt here?" I asked. "I would probably agree to that condition, if I thought you were being honest with me. But your track record works against you. You're just stalling. If I counter-offer with 'until the end of the semester' you'll go along with it for a while, then you'll tell me it would ruin the holidays. If I say 'until the end of the school year' you'll tell me I should visit with my parents for the summer. If I opt to drop out of the program altogether, you'll have a fucking tantrum about my wasted potential, as if you have some kind of proprietary right to it. You know perfectly well this degree will take me at least two more years to accomplish at the rate I'm going, and by then you'll have some new excuse to delay changing me. Tell me I'm wrong." I gave him a few moments to deny my hypothesis. Instead, he actually squirmed, and I knew I was right. "You could have come to me at any time in all these years—in point of fact, you _should_ have," I jabbed his frozen chest with my finger for emphasis, hurting myself in the process, "but you never did." I pulled my hand away and shook it, as if that might ease the pain.

"I wanted to," Edward said softly, grasping my hand and tenderly holding my finger in his chilled palm. "I had planned to come to you when you got your bachelor's degree. But you'd already started seeing Ben, and I could tell how he felt about you, and then that night you let him kiss you, so I just…" he trailed off.

I remembered the glass on my counter and picked it back up. "It's always something with you, isn't it?" I threw back a long swallow, feeling the familiar burn in my throat, the warmth spreading through my belly. "You're unbelievable. I got drunk and let a man kiss me for the first time in five years, and you let that stop you. You fucking _coward_. You threw away an entire future over one kiss. Just like you discarded me over an instinct your brother couldn't suppress and regretted instantly. Always, _always_, you let the little shit get in our way instead of talking to me and making an effort to overcome the problem."

"It was cowardly of me," Edward admitted. "But if you hadn't told Ben 'yes,' I would have come to you that night."

"Oh, so now this whole thing is _my_ fault?" I growled, gesturing angrily at my chest with my glass. Edward's eyes followed the tumbler as it swerved. "It's _my fault_ you didn't fight for me? It's my fault you waited and wasted all these years for no goddamn reason?"

"I wanted to be sure I'd be welcome, but when you let him kiss you, I thought it meant you were finally over me," he explained quickly. Too quickly. "I didn't want to invade and ruin whatever peace you'd found. Human love fades, Bella. I didn't know you still loved me."

"So you're saying it was all a coincidence," I deduced, tilting my head to examine Edward's face. "A big misunderstanding."

"Yes, exactly," Edward replied, a weak smile of relief at his lips.

I took another drink. His smile died.

"Bullshit." Who did he think he was fucking with? "Even if you couldn't hear my thoughts, you watched me for so long; there is _no way_ you didn't know how I felt about you. Are you really going to pretend that during all your years of listening to me sleep-talk, you never once picked up on the obvious? You knew I was still in love with you then, just like you knew it when you tore my heart out and stomped on it!"

"Don't act like you're blameless here!" he protested. "When I ended things with you, you didn't fight for _me_, or for _us._ I thought I'd have to argue with you for hours, but I didn't even have to work that hard. You just rolled over and gave up. That's what you _always_ do!"

"Fuck you!" I shouted. "And fuck your arrogant, _only-vampires-can-love-this-strongly _attitude. _You're_ the one who said you wanted to go. _You're_ the one who preyed on my insecurities and low self-esteem. Why should I have fought for you after you said I wasn't good enough? That you _didn't want me!_ And how was I _supposed_ to fight when you fucking disappeared inside of ten minutes? I wandered that forest for _hours_ looking for you, which you should _know_ if you were actually watching me, and you have the nerve to accuse me of rolling over and giving up?" I yelled. "You left me all alone! For _years!_ You never called to check on me, you wouldn't let Alice search for me, nothing! You just threw money at me and assumed I'd have a good cry and go back to life as usual while you took an extended vacation. You pompous, condescending asshole! You do nothing but complain about the hell someone else thrust on you, but you haven't the slightest _clue_ what kind of hell I went through when you vanished!"

Edward lowered his head in silence. I couldn't be bothered to discern what was there on his face besides the unceasing shame I heaped on him. "I had to fight just to wake up without screaming every morning! I had to force myself to eat something every day! I had to get drunk or mentally exhausted just to make myself fall asleep at night! I spent years fighting tooth and nail to get respect from my own mother! I had to struggle to carve out an existence that gave my life any sort of meaning! I couldn't even talk to anyone about what really happened or how worthless you made me feel, whether I wanted to or not, because I had to protect your goddamn secret! Do you have any idea what that was like?"

I continued screeching, feeling my throat twinge, while Edward clamped his eyes shut. "You have _no right_ to say I never fought or to judge anything I've done with my life! You stand there and talk about not wanting to disrupt my peace, when you don't even know what 'peace' means to me or how I find it! You want me to be happy, but you watched me struggle with depression and didn't help me. You claim you want to be with me, but only on your terms. You want me to live the life I've made, but you belittle it. You want to protect me, but you want me to die! And you're giving me with no guarantees that you won't put me through the pain of falling in love with you and losing you all over again! What sense does any of that make? What kind of relationship do you expect to have with me without working together? Did you even think about what you were going to do when you walked through my door, or did you just show up because of Alice? Do you really want to be here? _Do you even love me?_" I roared.

"_I don't know!_" Edward thundered back. _"I don't know anything anymore! Sometimes I don't even know who the hell you are!"_

My body tensed at the volume, and Edward covered his mouth, his face filled with remorse. "I am so sorry," he whispered, his palms flying up and cooling my reddened cheeks. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Like what?" I croaked, trying to pull away without much success. "How else could you mean it?"

"Bella, my love," he crooned, pressing his forehead to mine and trying to kiss me. I jerked my head to the left, not caring about his crestfallen reaction. "I've done nothing but watch you for years, always staying out of the way unless there was trouble, just trying to make sure you had what you needed and weren't in danger." His shoulders slumped, and he pulled me even closer to him for just a moment, kissing my nose instead of my mouth. "I didn't…I never expected this to happen. One minute I was playing the piano while you were at work, trying to listen to the thoughts around you since it wasn't that far. The next minute I heard Carlisle's mind for the first time in years, and everyone in the family was stunned by your scent and pouring over your scholarship application and picturing your seventeen-year-old face, trying to decide what they should do. Next thing I knew, the entire clan was hunting for me and demanding answers, Esme was crying, and Rosalie called me a…a fucking pussy. Then Alice broke her vow for Esme and had a vision of you getting stone drunk, so she went after you. When she brought you home you were ranting and raving and you didn't recognize your lullaby in the lobby, and Alice kept _thinking_ at me to act like a grown man instead of a scared little boy, and she said I'd waited too long for this already, and it was all just…crazy," he finished lamely.

"Crazy," I echoed, my mind filling up with a slow, somber dawning. Edward nodded, looking relieved for a moment until he realized my expression was murderous.

"You were never going to come see me," I murmured darkly. "You were going to kick back and spend the rest of my life watching me get old and die. The only reason you're here _now_ is because of a bizarre coincidence you had no control over. And I'm not waiting around for another one." I looked down at the glass in my hand. Out of nowhere, something strange occurred that had never happened to me before: I heard _Ben's_ voice.

_Sometimes you think you know what you want in life, but when you finally reach it and take a good look at it, it's not at all what you thought it would be._

What the hell was I doing? This boy didn't love me; he loved the _idea_ of me, the memory. And I couldn't honestly say the same wasn't true of myself. For all my talk of being more than a mere impetuous youth, I certainly had been acting like one. But I had my limits. I might be willing to give up all that I'd built for love, but I wasn't about to give it up for someone who didn't respect me.

I pulled out of Edward's grasp and took four steps back. "Leave. Now."

"Bella, no, I—"

I launched my empty glass at his face, watching as he let it shatter in his eyes. He didn't blink, though his face rippled with surprise. "Get out, and take your money with you!" I screamed. "I'm not your whore! I am _nobody's whore!_"

Stunned, he retreated to my bed, robotically pulling his clothing out from behind the mattress and taking his time getting dressed as he spoke. "I wasn't trying to treat you like a…wh-whore," he stammered, slipping his hand over the front of his shirt as if he'd forgotten he popped all the buttons off. "I didn't mean to make you feel that way, and I apologize. I meant that money as a gift, so that you wouldn't have to struggle and suffer."

"Then I'm glad I didn't use it," I said, feeling surprisingly calm now, my body releasing its tension after the exertion of something as simple as throwing glass. "Maybe life didn't turn out exactly the way I would have wanted, but it's through my struggles and suffering that I've gained anything worth having."

Edward nodded in understanding. "All the same, I would still like you to keep the money. You don't have to use it," he said hurriedly at my homicidal glare. "You can give it to Brown and Marty, or to a charity, or give it as a scholarship to someone else, anything you like. You can even burn it, if you want. But I won't take it. It's yours."

I grunted noncommittally in answer. Living by my own sweat for eight years had made me pragmatic enough not to want to burn money. I would give it to someone who needed it. Alice might help me launder it first, if I ever decided to give her a call, or perhaps Shalice would know a way to legitimize it. I could buy the Chatterbox for several times its worth so Brown and Marty would have a way to pay for Brown's cancer treatments, assuming he needed them, and eventually, his funeral.

"I'm sorry I hurt you, Bella," Edward murmured, sitting on the bed to don his shoes. "I didn't mean to, and I will never regret anything as much as I do that. I'm sorry I couldn't be human for you. Please know that it's all I've wanted for nearly a century—to be human, not just for me, but for someone else, someone I could love, someone who could love me. For you. Only you."

In that instant, I knew he would never stop loving me from afar, never waver in his devotion, never stop following me in the shadows until the day I died.

And I couldn't live like that.

"I'm getting married, Edward."

His eyes grew wide, the whole of his flawless body freezing in the middle of the room, a perfect Rodin statue of disbelief.

"Don't act so surprised," I told him; I tried to sound curt and sarcastic but it just came out tired. "I'm sure you've heard Ben thinking about it."

"Yes, but…" He searched me, probably trying in vain to hear my thoughts. "You haven't told him yes…"

"What's the problem?" I asked coldly. "Isn't that what you wanted? Didn't you stand right here and say 'What about Ben?'"

He looked at me, then at the rumpled bed, then back at my face. "But I thought…" He had never looked so very young until that moment. And I never felt so ancient.

"This weekend was wonderful," I said softly, honestly. "The best of my life. And I do love you. I'll always love you. In a way." My voice hardened again as I turned his poisonous words back on him. "But as it turns out, everyone was right all along: just because you love someone doesn't mean you're right for each other. I can either spend the rest of my life pining for you and the future and family I wanted, or I can let myself be happy."

He winced, as if I'd physically hurt him. "Do you think, maybe…I can call you?"

Call me? "I'm tired and worn out, and I'm getting too old to put up with a lovesick teenage infatuation. You're a hundred and twelve years old—it's time for you to grow up." Time for me, too.

Edward gasped slightly, agony chiseled across his face. When he came near me to kiss my cheek, I held my breath and remained stationary and unresponsive. He treaded lightly to the door, his eyes never leaving me, mine always on him.

"Goodbye, Bella."

He waited a few moments, but I didn't say anything. Then my front door closed, and he was gone.

"HÍ,ÁC̸E TES."

I sighed, locked the door, and began cleaning up the tiny fragments of glass on my kitchen floor and wiping everything down, my tears falling to the floor and mingling with the cleaning fluid and splashes of Coke.

I turned off all my lights but for the neon lamp, turned up the volume on my little speakers and fiddled with the buttons, and pulled my old suede coat from the closet. I still used it on occasion, if I was planning to work on my bike in cold weather or participate in fieldwork; as such it was ratty, ripped in places, stained with oil here and there, and falling apart. In short, completely unrecognizable as the beautiful piece of clothing I'd admired all those years ago. I let my robe slip to the floor, pulled the jacket on over my nude body, and stalked to the kitchen, filling a new glass tumbler with ice and pulling out my sealed bottle of Gentleman Jack from a cabinet. Smooth, expensive stuff; I eyeballed in less than an ounce of amber-gold. I'd been saving it for a special occasion. Giving up my first love seemed pretty special to me.

Taking one small sip, I sat on my disheveled bed, looking at the way the neon light cast everything in my apartment in a different light, warping my world. With a sigh, I reached out and slid open my underwear drawer, pulling out the tiny black box Ben had given me at Sturgis. Of course, he proposed a month ago, before Hannah started having parent issues. Her timing was highly suspect, now that I really thought about it, and I wondered how things were playing out between them at the moment.

Marriage had never been on my list of lifetime goals. I had nothing against it—in fact I quite enjoyed comparing marriage customs from around the world—I just didn't think it was necessary for me. Knowing this about me, Ben had encouraged me to take all the time I needed before answering, and promised that if I didn't want to change anything, I didn't have to. I still hadn't decided, actually—I lied to Edward about choosing to accept Ben's proposal as easily as Edward once lied about losing interest in me.

Lifting the lid, I studied the engraved images on the white gold:

Raven Steals the Sun.

Ben told me the story in his own way, though of course I'd heard it before, spoken in various Salish dialects, as well as other versions in other tongues. In the beginning of time, the world was in darkness, and everyone bumbled about in the endless night, only able to use torches to see the way. Seagull held the light of the world captive in a box, refusing to share the light with anyone. Raven, tired of living in darkness, attempted all manner of persuasions and pleading to make Seagull open the box, to no avail. At last, Raven tricked Seagull into stepping in sea urchin thorns, then approached him with a knife, offering to help remove the painful spears. Having only a torch to see by, Raven brutalized Seagull's feet with his knife, pushing the thorns in further and claiming he needed the daylight to see what he was doing. Seagull opened the box little by little, until Raven knocked the box wide open, snatched up the daylight, and flew into the sky, setting the light free.

The painstakingly handcrafted piece of jewelry depicted two birds facing each other and had a brilliant round diamond in the center, representing the daylight. The sun.

"_This hurt inside of me ain't never gonna end…"_

"It does feel that way," I agreed with the singer.

"_But I'll be alright, as long as there's light from a neon moon."_

I got up and changed the song, turned off the blue-and-orange lamp, and shrugged out of the coat, letting it drop to the floor. I had no idea what to do about Ben yet, and now wasn't the time to figure that out. The best thing to do now, I decided, was to have another shower and a hot meal before I did anything else. Edward probably lived here under an alias, or had some other way to get into my building at will. I wasn't sure if Alice had let him in or he had a key to my apartment, but I wasn't going to give him tacit permission to continue his midnight tiptoes. Residence contract or not, tomorrow I was getting the hell out of here, cost be damned.

As I grabbed a clean change of clothes and made my way to the tiny bathroom in the grey pre-dawn light, I sang along with the new tune—another old favorite from the Chatterbox jukebox.

"_No lies, no no no. This is my last goodbye."_

* * *

Footnotes:

HÍ,ÁC̸E TES: Goodbye to him.

_**Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. All recognizable characters and song lyrics are the property of their respective copyright owners. "My Last Goodbye" is a song by Kenny Wayne Shepherd, "Against the Wind" is by Bob Seger, and "Neon Moon" is by Brooks and Dunn. Portions of Stephenie Meyer's original work are reprinted, but no copyright violation is intended. References to real places and groups are used fictitiously, and certain elements of history are ignored. This story is in no way meant to reflect actual criminal events or territorial claims of gangs or motorcycle clubs in Vancouver or any other location.**_


	15. 14 2013 Part 6

**2013 Part 6**

September 2013

Vancouver, BC

"Financial Aid, this is Director Morgan speaking."

"Jenna, it's Bella."

"Bella! Glad to hear from you. Listen thanks again for covering for Marissa on Friday night. Again. God, that girl never seems to want to work, does she? Well, I appreciate you going the extra mile. I haven't forgotten that I owe you."

"Good, because I'm calling in my favor. I have an emergency situation, and I need some time off."

—

"Anthropology Department, Dr. West."

"Dr. West, this is Bella Swan. There's been an emergency, and I need someone to cover my classes this week."

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, I am, I promise, but I really need the time off."

A sigh. "The school year just started."

"I am painfully aware of that fact. As I said, there's been an emergency. My lesson plans and lecture notes are in my desk, clearly labeled and ready to go."

"Let me check the schedule…I can have Mei Ling cover your Comparative Language class on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and Jemari can take the Contemporary Indigenous Cultural Expressions class on Tuesday and Thursday. You need to contact Dr. Samson about someone covering your language class."

"Thank you, Dr. West. I really appreciate this."

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"…I will be. I hope."

—

"UBC Housing office, this is Sylvia, how can I help you?"

"Sylvia, my name is Isabella Swan; I live in Marine Drive housing. I'd like to cancel my residence contract, please."

"Yes, ma'am, let me pull up your file…Isabella Marie Swan, Marine Drive Building 1?"

"That's correct."

"I'll go ahead and start the process for you. You will have until the 27th to be completely moved out. As per your contract, you are still financially obligated for both current and final months' rent."

"That's fine. I can be in your office in an hour to pay you and sign the paperwork."

"Excellent. Thank you. May I have your forwarding address?"

"I don't have one."

"You'll need to provide one to us, should your check or credit card be rejected due to insufficient funds."

"I'll be paying in cash."

—

"Hi, welcome to Apex Wireless! How can I help you?"

"I'm here to cancel my cellular contract."

"Are you sure? Is there anything we can do to improve your service?"

"You can cancel my contract without trying to sell me on fifteen different service plans."

"O…kay…will you be switching your phone number over to a different provider?"

"No."

"Do you at least want to listen to your voicemails before we disconnect your service?"

"…No."

—

"Hello?"

"Hey, it's me."

"Bella! I'm so glad you called. How are you? Are you…calling from a payphone?"

"Listen…can I please come stay with you for a while?"

* * *

October 2013

Burnaby Fraser Foreshore Park

Burnaby, BC

"So anyway," I said quietly, sitting with my feet in the Fraser River, "that's what happened."

Ben had not spoken yet. He only sat beside me on the riverbank, listening, staring down at the flowing water. I'd given him a basic version, leaving out any supernatural references, knowing he'd assume I was just trying to be quick without going into painful detail. All the backstory he needed to know was that I ran into my ex's sister at the bar (which Marty had already corroborated) and that she insisted her brother come speak to me. That my ex-boyfriend was an immortal was a triviality; the fact that I'd actually considered leaving Ben for said ex was far and away the most damning admission of the day.

"I understand if you can't forgive me," I continued in my low voice, fingering the ring box in my pocket. I had a new appreciation, and belated compassion, for Alice. This kind of conversation took a lot more courage without alcohol-induced confidence or the intangible support of the moral high ground. Thing was, if I could yell at her for blaming her choices on other people, then I needed to be a grown-up and own my choices, too. That's why I was here right now instead of leaving Ben a voice mail and hiding from him like some child—_like Edward_. "It was a terrible thing to do. For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

I kept waiting for Ben to get angry and leave, but there was only the sound of bird cries and insects for a long time. "Why?" he finally asked, staring at the river rocks. "Was it because of your birthday?"

During my week off school and work, I didn't contact Ben at all, preferring to use my time not only to rearrange my living situation, but to think (sans alcohol) about my life and the people in it, and to consider how long I'd let the actions of other people affect me. I thought about what it meant to care about a person, not idolize them or make them the solution to my problems. I thought about what kind of eternity I expected to have with Edward if I couldn't get drunk enough to gloss over his character flaws anymore, and wondered if he would have tolerated mine. Most of all, I thought about who and what I valued in my world; the number of people on the list surprised me, and I was ashamed of myself for being so willing to leave them behind. I wouldn't just miss these people for a while—I'd miss them for the rest of my life. And while I'd always known I might leave them someday, they deserved more than a quick 'have a nice life' or a fake funeral. The whole thing left me with the uncomfortable feeling that maybe Edward wasn't wrong about _everything._ While mulling these things over, I spent a few days with Shalice and had a several confidential conversations with her, got a post office box, and found a cheap place to live that didn't require me to sign a lease or submit to a credit check (with a futon couch, an ugly yellow kitchenette, a metal door, a single-cylinder deadbolt, a mortise lock, a chain lock, a sliding bolt, and windows too small for anyone to squeeze through). Whatever I could think of to change my pattern, just in case _someone_ didn't get the hint. I hated my maximum security apartment, but doing all this was the right thing for me, and probably one of the healthiest things I'd done in a long time.

Unfortunately, it scared the hell out of Ben when he didn't hear from me for so long, especially after Hannah's tantrum. Ben had explained rather frantically, when I finally worked up the courage to call him from my new number, that Hannah eventually confessed to being jealous that we'd gone on vacation to Sturgis without her. This, he decided, was not a justification for her hissy fit, and he reminded her that at not-quite-eleven, she wasn't too old to be spanked. However, that didn't suddenly give her a more positive attitude toward me. He hadn't wanted to inflict his daughter's bratty behavior on me for my birthday, and he claimed he'd been trying to get her mother to come pick her up, to no avail. Truthfully, I wasn't sure I believed him. Not because he had a history of lies—far from it—but because I couldn't imagine Ben ever canceling plans with Hannah to do something for me. Such a thing was absolutely without precedent. With that in mind,_ yes, because of my birthday_ would have been an easy answer to go along with, but I owed Ben better than that.

"No, I'm used to having crappy birthdays," I assured him. After a moment's hesitation, I pulled my sleeve up and showed him the jagged remnant of Carlisle's expert stitching. Ben had seen it before, of course, but I never explained it beyond telling him it was an accident. Understanding, his eyes widened with shock now. "I wouldn't have an affair just because you couldn't make it to dinner."

"Hannah herself, then?" He seemed wary, as if he'd been anticipating as much. Almost as if he expected me to dislike her just as much as she did me. But that was _ridiculous_.

"No, Ben." Then after some thought, I cautiously elaborated. "Well, not exactly. She wasn't the reason for what I did, but she's certainly causing some issues right now." I cringed, waiting for him to defend her, but he only waved his hand impatiently, indicating that I should proceed. What was he expecting me to say?

"Every decision you make is with Hannah in mind. And I'm not saying that's wrong," I quickly reassured him, "but I always feel like you need her approval before we make any kind of step forward. I care about her, and I want you to do what's best for her, Ben. I do. But it seems like if she's the least bit uncomfortable with something, it just doesn't happen for us. Can you imagine at all how that makes me feel? Knowing that all she has to do is say the word, and any kind of plans or future I try to make with you can crumble at any minute?" The moment I finished saying all that, I realized how much alike Ben and I really were: we'd both spent years waiting for the other shoe to drop, and that proverbial shoe was on Hannah's foot.

"I can see why you'd get that impression," Ben allowed. "I suppose I've caved in to her whims a few times too many."

"Yes," I agreed, "you have. That being said, I won't sit here and make excuses. What I did wasn't because of my birthday. Or because of Hannah. Or Laura. Or you. It wasn't even because I was drunk. It was about coming to terms with my past. I've never told anyone this, but he saved my life three times before I reached the age of eighteen. He was my whole world in those days, and he made me feel like I was his, and I've never had that with anyone else. Ever. He was the unfinished business of my life."

"I see," Ben replied with a short grunt. "And is your business finished now?"

The river water swirled around my ankle in an engrossing way. "I never expect to see him again, if that's what you mean."

"No, Bella, that is _not_ what I mean," Ben almost growled. I forced myself to look at his face, to see the undeserved pain I'd caused. He held it close, only revealing it with tight eyes. "People get closure all the time without sleeping with someone, and you're not the kind of woman who has revenge sex. What I mean is: do you still love him? _That's_ what I need to know."

He had a right to his bitterness, to a whole tornado of emotion. I could hardly blame Ben for demanding a truthful explanation—that was what I had wanted from everyone else, wasn't it? So I told him the truth.

"Yes," I sighed. Ben winced but kept listening. "Just like my Dad still cares for my mom and you still care for Laura. I know he and I were young at the time, but we were planning to spend our entire lives together. That's not the same as actually getting married and having a child, but my commitment was just as strong, and you know that's not an easy thing to get over. Just because I have residual feelings for him, it doesn't follow that _you_ don't mean anything to me."

Ben frowned at that and sucked in a long breath. "I think I may need some time with this."

"Of course," I nodded, looking at my toes in the water again. "Take all the time you need. If…if you want your ring back, I have it on me."

A calloused but gentle hand covered mine. "No, you hang on to it for now."

I glanced up into sad eyes accompanied by a warm smile and felt my face jolt with surprise. "Really?"

Ben exhaled deeply and closed his eyes. "Now's not exactly a good time for us to make decisions about that. I mean, you still hadn't given me an answer anyway. I don't want to misinterpret this, and I'm sure you don't, either." He looked at me then, obviously still hurt, but with something else softening his expression. "So just hold on to it for a while. If you decide you want to give it back, you can. And if I decide I want to ask to have it back, I will. We can figure things out from there."

I twisted my hand and clasped Ben's fingers. "Thank you, Ben," I said genuinely. "That's much more kindness than I deserve."

"Yeah, well, it's not like I've never fucked up before," Ben shrugged, though his tone was anything but casual. "Did I ever tell you that I cheated on Laura once?"

"I would have remembered that," I grimaced.

Ben stared into the water, and I stared with him. The sky looked more textured in the flowing river's reflection than it did when I lifted my eyes upward.

"I was about your age," Ben said, his voice like gravel. "Hannah was only two. By then, Laura and I were already having marital problems, and we'd started throwing the words 'separation' and 'divorce' around during a few fights. We lived on the reserve, and I was working a job up in Nanaimo. It's only a ninety-minute commute, but sometimes I stayed the night out there if I was too tired to drive or if I just didn't want to deal with Laura's shit. It was an asshole thing to do, leaving her all alone with our toddler. I mean, she needed a break, too. But at the time, I wasn't thinking about anything like that. I just wanted to relax.

"So I'm at this bar down the street from my motel, and I'm doing shots of Chivas Regal." At my puzzled look, Ben nodded grimly. "Yeah, I used to drink scotch. Lots of it. That night I was pissed off about something; I can't even remember what it was now. I start mainlining Chivas, and the next thing I know I'm waking up next to some gorgeous strawberry blonde, feeling like I've had my brains fucked out of my skull. She tells me she's in town for a month, that I'm pretty good in the sack, and that she wants to know if I'd like to make this a regular thing, no strings attached."

It took me a few seconds to think of anything to say. "I didn't know you liked blondes," I finally muttered. Lame. But how else was I supposed to respond?

"I don't," he mumbled just as awkwardly.

After a silent moment, I asked him, "So what did you do?"

Ben didn't answer right away; his shoulders sagged uncharacteristically. "I asked her if she had any condoms."

"Oh," I whispered, surprised. I'd known Ben to occasionally do something ill-advised when he was angry, but intentional infidelity wasn't something I would have pegged him as capable of doing. He was too loyal. However, it went a long way toward explaining why he sat here with me for so long, hearing me out instead of storming away.

"She laughed and said we didn't need them," Ben continued. "When I got worried, she started getting pissed off, like I offended her or some shit. So I got dressed, settled my bill, and drove home." Ben looked away from me. "I stopped having sex with Laura…you know, just in case…and got myself tested. When everything came back clean, I asked Laura what she wanted to do. She said she loved me, but things just weren't working out anymore, so we decided to split up. She kept the house, and I moved to Vancouver to start over. It was…hard, not being with my family anymore. I missed them. Eventually, after a long time of being here alone, I figured out that things wouldn't have worked out with Laura no matter how good or bad a husband I was, but that was no excuse for being a bad father. I regretted every wasted night that I stayed out drinking instead of just going home to my daughter."

Not sure what else to do, I pressed my cheek to Ben's shoulder, wishing I could comfort him better than that. He didn't move away.

"I had several women after the divorce went through," Ben told me. "But it felt like I was just killing time with them. They didn't mean anything, not really. Most nights I'd lie awake, wishing I could just go home."

"I see." I really did, too. I thought of the little bit of dating I'd done before Ben became part of my life, and all of my own sleepless nights.

"I know you do." The strength I'd come to expect was missing from his voice. "That's what worries me."

"How so?" I asked, nervous now.

"I'm afraid you're just killing time with me after all," he answered quietly.

"Ben!" I gasped, sitting up straight. "I'm not—"

He stopped me with a finger to his lips, and I waited fearfully to hear what he'd say.

"What do I mean to you, Bella?"

Such a simple question.

_**

* * *

**_

A/N: My apologies to all who did not receive a response to their reviews of the previous chapter. It's been a busy week at home, AND I have been working on this and two other stories! Thanks for reading and for showing your support!

Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. All recognizable characters and song lyrics are the property of their respective copyright owners. Portions of Stephenie Meyer's original work are reprinted, but no copyright violation is intended. References to real places and groups are used fictitiously, and certain elements of history are ignored. This story is in no way meant to reflect actual criminal events or territorial claims of gangs or motorcycle clubs in Vancouver or any other location.


	16. 15 2016

**Hard to believe my story's near an end. Just this chapter, and then an epilogue (which will not be up for several more days). Enjoy!**

* * *

May 2016

TSARTLIP Indian Reserve

Vancouver Island, BC

"Do you, Benjamin QIEĆEN Rainwater, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

"I do."

"And do you, Isabella Marie Swan, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

Say it, Bella. It's natural to be scared, but you wouldn't be here if you didn't want to say it.

"I do."

"If anyone here knows any reason why these two should not be married, let them speak now, or forever hold their peace."

I held my breath, and my eyes darted nervously across the landscape, the long-buried instinct suddenly strong and surface-level, though not welcome at all. At the edge of the tree line, I saw it. The sparkle under the sun, topped with bronze-red, shining in the bright light.

_Last chance, Edward. I'm right here._

Shut up, Bella.

"Bella," Ben whispered while the earth wobbled under me, "what's wrong?"

"Now for you—"

"Wait just a moment, please."

"Bells, are you alright?"

"Dr. Swan?"

"I think she's going to faint!"

_Edward._ "Please…" _Say I'm worth it. Even if you know you won't win, say I'm worth fighting for._

I stared openly at the sparkle in the distance, my head spinning all the while. I blinked the tears out of my eyes, and then it was gone. Just a trick of the light.

Two strong arms circled my waist and shoulders. "Bella?" Ben said worriedly, supporting my weight "Are you okay?" I looked up into his patient, caring, concerned face, and my memory washed over me.

"_What do I mean to you, Bella?"_

_Without really knowing how else to begin, I said, "I've never put a label on it, Ben." I twisted my feet in the water, pushing rocks around. "I'm never going to be first and foremost in your life or the center of your universe—Hannah belongs there. I know that, and I understood and accepted it from the beginning. This relationship you and I have isn't some kind of all-consuming explosion of passion that devours our souls until we collapse under the weight of it. That's infantile, and it's not what you and I are about. You just…you're my favorite person, my partner and my lover and my best friend. We respect each other, and you make me happy in a way no one else can. I want to be with you and try to make you happy, too. I like to take care of you when you get sick or hurt, and take naps together, and share everything I know with you and listen when you share with me. I love riding with you, sleeping with you, drinking beer and laughing with you. There's almost nothing I wouldn't do for you." I almost told him I would die to protect him, but it was the kind of truth that would sound like an exaggeration to a human unaware of immortal predators. "You're not my whole world, and I'm not yours. But you make my world a better place just by being in it, and I want you in it all the time." I stopped, took a breath, and finally looked at his wide face. "Does that make any sense?"_

_His fingers squeezed mine. "You know, I've never done this before—had a girlfriend who I allowed into my daughter's life. If there's a right way to go about this and make everyone happy, I don't know what that way is. It's true that you aren't more important than Hannah. But despite what your mother has told you, putting Hannah first doesn't mean I put you last. Yes, I know about that conversation," he frowned when I gave a little startled gasp. "Shalice told me about it last year, after I made an ass of myself while you were in Samoa."_

"_You never said anything," I whispered. "All this time, we never talked about it."_

"_I didn't think we had to, Bella, and you certainly never brought it up." He gave me a strange look. "I'm not a mind-reader, you know. If it bothered you that much, why didn't you just tell me?"_

_My mouth dropped open a little. How many times had I said the exact same thing to Edward: 'Why didn't you just tell me?'_

"_Ben, I hadn't even met Hannah yet when Renee and I had that argument," I reminded him once I collected myself. "And even after you introduced us, how could I possibly bring it up without sounding like a selfish, needy bitch who wanted to take precedence over your own flesh and blood?"_

"_I guess I understand that," Ben nodded slowly. "But everyone knows your mother's full of shit. When Shalice told me what Renee said, I didn't think you actually believed that nonsense."_

"_Why wouldn't I?" I asked, genuinely perplexed by his assurance. "She was right about everything else."_

"_Bella," he said incredulously, "you're every bit as important to me as my daughter. Don't you know that by now?"_

_I shook my head. Because I really didn't know. My whole life, I never felt __**that**__ important to anyone. Not even my actual mother. Not even Edward, really. That made me briefly wonder: did Edward know Ben felt this way?_

"_Then you're ridiculous," Ben groaned. And to my everlasting bewilderment, he pulled my face closer and planted a kiss on my forehead. "Smartest person I know and it turns out you're as big a fool as everyone else."_

Eyes like mine swept over my face as I came back to the present. I had never told Ben I loved him before. Not once. Nor had he told me. In six years, we never needed to. Some things in this world didn't need to be spoken to be true.

"Yeah, I'm okay." I wiped carefully at my eyes with my fingertip, gave Ben's ribcage an affectionate squeeze, and turned back to the pastor. "My apologies, Reverend. Please carry on."

With a relieved smile, the salt-and-pepper-haired minister straightened up, reciting the traditional Salish marriage blessing in SENĆOŦEN. Behind me, I could hear Hannah translating for my parents and friends.

Now for you there is no rain, for one is shelter to the other.

Now for you the sun shall not burn, for one is shelter to the other.

Now for you nothing is hard or bad, for the hardness and badness is taken by one for the other.

Now for you there is no night, for one is light to the other,

Now for you the snow has ended always, for one is protection for the other.

It is that way, from now on, from now on. And now there is comfort.

Now there is no loneliness. Now forever, forever, there is no loneliness.

That evening we had a wild party of a reception, during which I had not a single sip of alcohol. There were hugs all around, embarrassing dance moves from Renee and Phil, _of course_, a kiss for me from Sue, a handshake and private conversation for Ben from Charlie, and unexpected tears from Marty, whose only regret was that Brown wasn't alive to see my wedding. In addition, there were three special gifts for three of the most important women in my life. A gold-plated vintage ratchet and socket set, which was officially the weirdest bridal gift ever, but perfect for Marty. A pair of diamond earrings for Shalice, my maid of honor, my _real_ sister, and quite literally my partner in crime. Finally, a custom-carved silver frog necklace for Hannah, my beautiful, brilliant step-daughter, so she'd know she was cherished and not forgotten. Family, I learned, came from the places I least expected.

"_Hello, Miss Bella," Hannah mumbled, resembling the shy eight-year-old I first met, not the confident (and sometimes rude) adolescent I was expecting. She hadn't called me 'Miss Bella' in years._

_It had been just over two months now since Hannah and I had seen or spoken to each other, two months since my terrible birthday, which I was bound and determined never to celebrate again for the rest of my life. Ben and I were still in the process of working through my betrayal, his hurt feelings, and the subsequent trust issues, but one thing we readily agreed on was that Hannah should not be the one who came between us. It was not her burden to carry the health or demise of our relationship on her shoulders. It was, however, important that she learn to behave appropriately toward her elders (Jesus H. Christ, I was someone's __**elder**__), to own up to her mistakes, to consider the feelings of others, and to express remorse._

_It was also her eleventh birthday, and this year she was spending it in Vancouver with her dad. And me._

"_Hello, Hannah. Happy birthday," I replied pleasantly, determined to treat her with respect. I was the adult here, after all, and I certainly still cared about her. "How've you been?"_

"_Fine, I guess," she answered awkwardly. "You?"_

"_Busy." So much had changed since I last saw her; I had to think about what to say. "I moved. My apartment is kind of ugly, so I've been trying to fix it up. Good thing your father taught me a thing or two about home repair." Across the room, Ben flashed a smile at me from the kitchen doorway before pretending to read a delivery menu._

"_Yeah, Dad told me you got a place in town." Hannah wouldn't meet my eyes. "I, um, got a new dog for my birthday, so Bear would have a friend, you know? His name's Fly, __'cause he's tiny like a flyspeck_. He's a mutt terrier." After another weird silence, which probably seemed long to her but was actually not more than a second, Hannah blurted out, "I think he's gay. He keeps trying to hump Bear."

"_Oh," I replied, trying to sound airy and light, even as I marveled at how early children learned of such things nowadays. Ben pressed his face into his palm and slowly shook his head. "Well…it's actually not as rare in dogs as you might think." It should not be this hard to talk to a child I had known for two and a half years. "So how's school?" I pressed, hoping a subject change would help._

"_School sucks," she declared._

_I couldn't help but smile. Including my preschool days, I had now been in school for twenty-two years straight. "I know exactly what you mean."_

"_I'm doing good in __SENĆOŦEN__ class, though," she said with something of a hopeful air as she lifted her face to mine. "Ms. Gilchrist is impressed. All that practice you and I did over the summer really helped." With a quick glance back at her father, she said nervously, "Wanna hear?"_

_I nodded, and Hannah took a long time clearing her throat._

"_I'm sorry for everything," she began in the Salish tongue, the words rising and falling in all the right places, a little formal but not choppy or stilted—she must have spent time rehearsing this. "I'm sorry I was mean to you. I did not give you my respect. I repaid your kindness with hate. I hurt you and my father, and I did not behave like a good daughter. You deserve better. I'm sorry."_

_Even though I knew she wasn't referring to herself as __**my**__ daughter, the word still surprised me with a quiet thrill. "__HÍSW̱__Ḵ__E__," I thanked her in the same language, feeling quite overcome._

_I patted the seat next to me on the couch, and Hannah obliged. "I missed you," she whispered._

_When I came to Vancouver, I was looking for a great many things: education, adventure, a fresh start, maybe even the ability to forget my loneliness. But most of all, I wanted to stop losing the things in life that were important to me. In my young, foolish mind, I believed the solution was to not care about anyone, or when I did care, not to cling to them, because not clinging meant not losing meant not hurting. Even so, the attachments I thought I was avoiding were formed, and what's more, they were not one-sided. And what do you know: I got hurt. More than once. But it didn't kill me. And afterward, I still cared, even when I tried to convince myself otherwise._

_Attachments weren't worth having if I didn't __**want**__ to fight for them, and I found that I did, even if the only way to fight was to make peace, or swallow my pride sometimes, or let go of my grudges—even if I had to do it over and over again. So I knew, even as Hannah let me hug her, that this wouldn't be the last time she would ever be rude or surly or generally unpleasant to me or to her parents—she hadn't even hit the self-obsessed teen years yet. But when she put her arm around me in return, I decided I could be okay with that. Ben and I would probably let each other down again someday, hopefully not intentionally, and I was okay with that, too, as long as we didn't stop trying to work things out and we kept fighting for each other. Growth took a long time, with lots of failures and false starts; it was more easily accomplished if people were willing to be patient and forgiving through the most difficult parts._

"_I missed you, too," I whispered back. "And you can still just call me Bella."_

Eventually it was time to say our farewells and leave the festivities. Ben and I changed into our leathers after the party and rode out together, traveling to parts unknown, lost in ourselves and each other, stopping at a random hotel alongside the coast to make love. To _really_ make love, slow and beautiful, clinging and releasing and kissing, soft lips against soft lips long into the night, a true merging, not just of bodies, but of our whole selves. Nothing I'd ever experienced could compare to this wonderful, amazing flood of emotions and sensation. It wasn't pretend, it wasn't unnaturally enhanced by otherworldliness, and it wasn't going away when I opened my eyes and saw him for who he was. This was Ben and I, joined at the soul.

"I love this tattoo," Ben sighed, kissing the long red and black lines, his breath tickling my skin as his mouth traveled from my spine to my side and down to my hip. This was one of our very favorite ways to touch each other.

"_Hey, Chuck," I greeted the rough-looking middle-aged man currently manning the register at Sacred Heart Tattoo and Body Piercing. Behind him was a wall covered in drawings and photographs. "How are you?"_

"_Good," he answered, nodding at me and looking over my shoulder. "Brought someone different with you this time?" I'd come in here with Marty for my first two tattoos._

"_This is Ben. Ben, this is Chuck, the guy Brown and I always use for our ink." They shook hands, checking out each other's tattoos. "Thanks for coming to the funeral, by the way," I said softly. Brown's death was difficult to bear, though it caught no one by surprise, and we were all glad when his suffering ended. Celeste never came to see her father, but he had Marty and Danny Jr. and me, right up until his last day. "Brown always spoke highly of you."_

_Chuck nodded again; he'd never been much of a talker. "Your table is all set. Did you get the drawing I made of the design you gave me?"_

"_Yeah, I got your email," I replied, bringing my mind back to the reason I was here. "It's exactly what I wanted. You don't need to change anything."_

"_Good. Head to the back room and remove your clothes. There's a bed sheet to cover up with. One of the girls is going to tape some paper over part of your body for modesty. I'll be there in ten minutes." Ben followed me, carrying a bag with different clothing for me to wear after: a long dress, something loose that wouldn't press against my skin._

_When Chuck came in, he double checked that I hadn't taken any painkillers or other blood-thinning medication, pulled the sheet away discreetly to pretreat the area that he'd be working with, and spent a few minutes discussing the size of my tattoo relative to my body. Because there was so much solid black inking to be done, Chuck expected this tattoo to take a month to complete, maybe less depending on how fast I healed between sessions. He left the room to print out the stencil._

"_What's he talking about?" Ben asked quietly, his hand running over the skin that would soon be raw and bleeding. "I thought you were getting a circular tattoo of Whale and Thunderbird on your back. That shouldn't extend from your spine all the way down your hip."_

"_It wouldn't," I smiled, enjoying the warmth of his fingers in contrast to the cool air that settled over me. Officially I was getting this tattoo in dual celebration of receiving my Ph.D. and finally becoming a Canadian citizen, which made the Thunderbird (my school's mascot, and a native symbol I'd long admired) the logical choice. However… "I chose something more meaningful."_

_Ben started to ask me something, but Chuck walked back in with the stencil pages in hand, taking care to double check exactly where each piece would go before he transferred it onto my body. It was just an outline, bluish-purple and strange against my skin, but once he colored in the red and black, it would be amazing._

"_Is that…?" Ben asked, his eyes wide. Chuck smiled knowingly, giving me a wink._

"_It's the Haida version," I answered. "But yes, that's Raven stealing the sun. Freeing it, actually." After all our years and everything I'd been through, I knew who I was, who Ben and I were together, and what I wanted for us. __Ben was more than my soul mate—he was my choice. _I snaked my arm out from its hiding place under the sheet and revealed the black velvet box in my palm, the one he'd never asked to have back, the one I never wanted to give up, no matter who showed up at my doorstep.

"I love it, too," I hummed, sifting my fingers through my husband's midnight-black hair. There was a hint of grey at his temple, just like mine.

And for one perfect night—one of many—I felt loved, warm, free, and most of all, _happy_.

_

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__Door closes, another one opens_  
_I feel the cold wind blowing_  
_Over me  
Long gone, but not forgotten  
I might be lost  
I might be finally free  
I'm finally  
Free_

_From "My Last Goodbye" by Kenny Wayne Shepherd_

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QIEĆEN: Grizzly bear

**For a visual of Bella's new tattoo, please visit the link on my profile.**

_**Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. All recognizable characters and song lyrics are the property of their respective copyright owners. Portions of Stephenie Meyer's original work are reprinted, but no copyright violation is intended. References to real places and groups are used fictitiously, and certain elements of history are ignored. This story is in no way meant to reflect actual criminal events or territorial claims of gangs or motorcycle clubs in Vancouver or any other location.**_


	17. Epilogue: Alice

_**Ladies and gents, I give you my epilogue (originally meant to be an outtake, but it wouldn't leave me alone!). Thank you everyone for reading, for giving feedback, for those of you who are Team Ben and those of you who are Team No Way In Hell. Please enjoy.**_

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Epilogue: Alice

September 2013

Bella's Apartment

UBC

"Alice Cullen," Bella growled at me, sounding more like my irate parent than a girl about eighty years my junior, "you know as well as I do that I came here because I was poor and this school offered me the most money. I applied for at least thirty private scholarships that would have allowed me to go anywhere in the Northern hemisphere if I'd been awarded even one of them, but somehow I wound up in Vancouver? The sun almost never shines and it's always cold and raining, but I'm only five hours away from the nearest parental authority in case there's an emergency your brother thought I'd be too weak to handle. Yes, I stayed here because I loved it, but I enrolled here initially because Edward _lured_ me. If you try to tell me Edward's scholarship wasn't a ploy, I think I may slap you for insulting my intelligence."

I looked at my shoes, once again too ashamed to meet her eyes. "Don't worry, I won't. You'd only break your hand." Maybe she was right about Edward's motivation. When I first learned of the scholarship he funded, he told me Bella also applied to Arizona State, but he certainly didn't use his back channel connections to send her to the middle of the desert, at least eighteen hundred miles from either parent.

"Take your money," Bella half-slurred as she made her way to the kitchen counter and started pressing buttons on her safe. I hated her voice like this. I still couldn't be sure how drunk she was, as she was fairly coherent, but the way she spoke sent horrified little shivers up my spine. "It's all here. Three hundred grand, American. I was going to use it to buy myself a Harley when I finished my bachelor's degree, but it turned out to be unnecessary. So here you go. It was yours anyway."

"I don't want it," I answered, unable to hide the disgusted look on my face.

"Neither do I," she huffed, yanking the stacks of bills out and piling them up, presumably for me. "Take your money, or I'm going to give it away to charity."

_Damn you, Edward, get your ass up here and deal with this instead of watching __**me**__ handle it. __I know that was you on the piano downstairs._ "It's not my money."

Leaving the cash on her counter, Bella struggled with the safe, almost dropping it as she lugged it back to the closet. "I got it from your drawer in your bedroom," she insisted. I wanted to help her carry the load, but the stubborn set to her jaw warned me not to try. "If it's not yours, it must be Jasper's—I suppose he felt guilty about what happened or whatever. Give it back to him. Tell him…I appreciate the thought, I guess."

Tired, so very, very tired, of this lie my brother made her believe, I told her, "It's not his either."

"What are you talking about?" She still didn't get it. All that alcohol in her blood, and she could put me soundly in my place and lecture me on my failings as a sister and a person, but she couldn't wrap her mind around this one simple thing I was trying to get across.

"Jasper and I didn't leave any money, Bella." I looked away from her drunken, teetering form and met my brother's eyes as he quietly walked into the door I'd left unlocked. "It's not ours." _You sorry bastard,_ I seethed in Edward's head. _You never learn, do you? Still think your financial fortune is the best way to solve all her problems?_

"Then whose was it?" Bella slurred again, her body pitching back and forth awkwardly. I resisted the urge to look in her future, as I'd been doing successfully for three years until earlier this evening, when Esme begged me to make sure Bella was all right. If she fell right now, she'd do it slow enough for me to catch her.

Still looking into Edward's eyes, I nodded minutely, indicating he should answer her.

"Mine," he sighed in a human volume.

There was a loud thumping sound, and I turned my head just in time to see Bella lean backwards onto her closet door and slide down as she lost consciousness. I started to dart forward, but Edward caught my wrist. "Don't," he whispered, not looking at me, but at her. "She's fine. Give her another five minutes, and then we can help her into bed without waking her."

"You…" I gasped, astounded by the implications. "How often do you come in here like this?"

"Less often since she started fucking _Him_," Edward growled softly, his eyes still on Bella. "Her roommate almost caught me once, when she had one. Bella hasn't been this drunk in a long time."

"Tell me you don't undress her," I hissed, furious with him. I didn't bother trying not to picture her in her underwear—her carefully selected 'FUCK Y'ALL' t-shirt had ridden up, and we could both see her thong. How many times had he seen her this same way? My brother's ability had always made him a natural voyeur, but this was just…sick.

"You're the last person who should be accusing anyone else of voyeurism, Alice." Edward had the nerve to look insulted. "The only things I take off are her shoes. I'm not a pervert. I never touch her inappropriately."

"Oh, right," I sneered. "Like you _didn't _kiss all over her in her sleep when she went to her first motorcycle rally. Or did you think I couldn't see that?"

"She was _speaking_ to me at the time," he groaned, as if he'd never known of her tendency toward somniloquence before that night. "I didn't realize—"

"Just stop." I stepped directly in front of him, blocking his view of Bella. "Nothing you can say will make that less disgusting than it already was. My concern is what you've been doing since you convinced _me_ there was no point in looking anymore."

Three years ago, the day after Bella's college graduation, a heartbroken Edward called me bemoaning the fact that she had finally kissed someone else. My immediate reaction was to search the future, but he stopped me, telling me that we'd _both_ hurt her enough, that Bella should be allowed to live her life without interference from either of us anymore, and that he wanted to grieve for his loss in private. At the time, the agony in his voice was so genuine, his argument so sound, and even I had to admit that it was best for Bella not to be meddled with any longer, not if she was finally getting to a good place in her human life and reaching for the joy she deserved on her own. Clearly she wasn't going to find it with Edward, not if he insisted on staying on the sidelines, and I wanted her to find a happiness that wasn't fleeting. The more I thought about the things Edward said, I realized that every time I ever relied on my visions to secure a better future for Bella, it always backfired, made her life into evermore creative kinds of hell, and Edward's too. After that, I made a solemn vow never to seek visions of either of them again, so that my ability would no longer be a curse on their lives. I did it with the best of intentions, but it served to give Edward cover to get his hands on her without any consequences.

"That was a one-time thing," he defended himself, obviously tuning into my head. "I've never done that again, except to hold her when she cried herself to sleep in Samoa…and a few other times, but I didn't kiss her!" he said quickly. Believing him was proving highly difficult. "I did the same when she was seventeen."

"She's not seventeen anymore!" If he couldn't see that by now, he needed a slap to the face—as of today Bella was the same physical age as our _mother._ "Bella's not that shy teenage girl who never had any male attention and found the idea of a nightstalker flattering. You can't just steal into her house whenever you want; I don't care how drunk she is."

Edward sighed miserably. "Usually she gets herself to bed, or has a roommate or That Man with her. I only step in when she's highly inebriated and alone."

"Don't call him 'that man,' Edward." If it had been a stranger or one of the human chuckleheads she dated briefly in her younger years, I wouldn't have cared, but this was the same respectful person I watched develop feelings for her years ago, and he and Bella were still together—there was a picture on the dresser of him, Bella, and a little girl riding some kind of dragon-headed river canoe, just like a _real_ family. They even had the same eyes.

"Stop _thinking_ that!" Edward hissed, as if I'd pressed a hot branding iron to his chest. "They are _not_ a family."

"Stop acting like the life she's made is meaningless," I bit back, recognizing his tone as denial. "Bella's an adult in a long-term commitment. You claimed you wanted her to move on, and she did the best she could. I won't allow you to demean her healthy relationship while you excuse your lurid behavior in the same breath."

"Quit making baseless accusations, Alice. You don't know anything about what the last three years have really been like or how healthy anyone's relationships are."

"He loves her!" _And you goddamn well know that._ I didn't know this Ben, but I could tell he loved Bella just by the way he looked at her, both in these many photos and in my old visions. Edward, having read the man's mind, must have known it with unparalleled certainty. "I'll bet he doesn't _spy_ on her, or whatever you tell yourself you're doing when you crawl in here, and call it love."

"I said _stop._" He pressed a hand over his eyes, a very human gesture for someone who'd been a ghost for eight years.

_Spare me the wounded Victorian gentleman's honor routine, Edward; your actions speak for themselves. I really hope you can appreciate the irony of defending your peeping Tom routine to **me**._

"I don't watch her have sex, and I don't take advantage of her," he insisted.

"You really expect me to believe you've _never_ watched her make love?" I said skeptically—there was very little I would put past him now. The temptation of a naked Bella and vicarious sex with her struck me as something he wouldn't have been able to resist.

Predictably, he paused. "I had to make sure, the first time, that he didn't hurt her. But I never did it again." To his credit, he looked ashamed of himself. As well he should. "I've done nothing wrong."

_Nothing wrong! _No way would I stand for that tripe, _especially_ after everything Bella told me. _Stupid, selfish…_ "Look at her leg, Edward! It's hideous! Look at how badly she limps! All those injuries—she's lucky she still _has_ that leg." So many scars and staple marks, and as a doctor's daughter I knew enough to be sure some were much more recent than the two years she claimed had passed since her accident. That big one on her calf was still pink—only a few months old, and judging by the number of winces and grimaces I'd witnessed all night, it still hurt like hell. I couldn't imagine pain like that, but I had endured my own wounds when I helped my family kill Victoria; if Bella had suffered even one-tenth that pain, she would have been begging for release. That thought alone made me want to rip Edward's head off. I never would have sat by and allowed Bella to come to such harm if I'd known about it.

"What did you think was going to happen to her?" he challenged me, much like Bella did herself. "Were you under the impression that just because you stopped looking, she wasn't going to be in danger anymore? Did you think she acquired vampire resilience through osmosis? You've never appreciated just how _fragile_ she is. I managed to leave her alone for about a month after college graduation before the thought of her on that bike terrified me too much not to come back."

"You still just let it happen right in front of you!" I shouted, still unable to _believe_ that. Bella confronting me about my poor choices for _her_ life was justified—Edward doing it on her behalf was the height of sanctimonious hypocrisy, especially when his choices led her to this. "Twenty-six years old, and there's a _cane_ under her bed! She's just this side of being a cripple! How dare you watch her get hurt like that? How dare you not tell me?"

"It was none of your concern, Alice," Edward retorted. "She was—"

"None of my concern?" Were those words really coming out of Edward's mouth? "My _sister!_ She was lying in that hospital screaming for _me_—" _and that's none of my concern?_

"She was recovering from surgery and heavily medicated. That's a strange time for the human brain. Believe me: she never called for you ever again." He tried to walk around me to get to Bella, but I slipped in the way again and seized him by his collar.

"You son of a bitch!" I snarled, shoving him backward. "I've thought of Bella, loved her and missed her for eight years _to the day,_ and because of you, she thinks we all just wrote her off without a second thought!"

"You did, Alice." Edward scowled at me. "The same night she was almost killed by _your_ husband, you and Jasper ran away. You left and never came back, just like she said."

_Still_ trying to blame his bad decisions on other people. "Don't try to make this into Jasper's fault. If you'd just given me a little more time with him, he'd have stopped wallowing in guilt and returned with me to Forks to make things right with Bella. We didn't set out to abandon her—we were _told_ not to come back," I reminded him. "By you."

"What's the difference?" He stood perfectly still, glaring down at me as if _I_ had done something unspeakable. "If she meant that much to you, you would have defied me long ago. In fifty years, you never did anything I asked if it was contrary to your own desires. Always meddling, always manipulating the situation, always pushing everyone toward things they weren't comfortable with because it was what _you_ wanted." The _you-meddlesome-jinx _argument; it was the same line of reasoning he used when he and everyone else managed to surprise me by showing up in Alaska right after Bella's birthday, when he told me we wouldn't be returning to Forks and that I should keep my eyes on my own damn future instead of screwing up everyone else's. I didn't fully believe him then, not yet, but I did obey him for almost a year before I started looking again. Angry with myself now, I looked away, remembering Bella's alcohol-reddened eyes tonight as she called me a stupid bitch for _not_ coming here to be part of her life again. "She's right, Alice," Edward continued, trying to capitalize on my self-condemnation, "you never came for her like I did—"

My fiery gaze snapped back to his chilled one. "Don't you dare try to take credit for that. You'd still be gallivanting around Finland, hunting caribou and feeling sorry for yourself, if not for my 'meddling' ways." _Damned self-centered, conniving boy._ "You've conveniently forgotten you came to Vancouver because _I_ checked on her against your wishes, _I _told you she was going to get sick and work or drink herself to death without some kind of real help. You came here because of _my_ love for her, not your own."

"But you stayed in Calgary," he pointed out.

"Yes I did," I conceded. "But only because you promised me you would take care of her, you bastard! Not stand by and watch her turn into a lush!"

"I couldn't stop her. She's—"

"Like hell you couldn't stop her!" Whatever his excuse was for that, he and I knew it was a lie. I only looked for her periodically during her four years as an undergrad, but once my brother showed up, he watched her _every day_ and did _nothing!_ "If you had spoken to her like I told you to, she wouldn't have been trying to drink your memory away!"

"She wasn't drinking me away," he shouted, "she was drinking me in!"

I felt my jaw snap shut. _What? __**What**__ did you say?_

"I didn't understand it when I first got here," he mumbled, "and you wouldn't have seen that kind of reasoning in a vision, but after a while I figured it out." Edward averted his eyes, looking shameful again. "She drank to remember me."

The animal blood drained away from my face as I processed the inference. _You…you let her do this to herself on purpose?_

"No," he denied immediately. "I told you, I didn't understand what she was doing at first. I'm not sure _she_ even realized it—she certainly didn't seem to be remembering me with fondness. She had enough good things in her life to outweigh the bad, or at least I thought so. It did seem like she was slowing down after a while. I couldn't just waltz back into her life and ruin everything."

"Liar!" I accused. Bella wasn't willing to accept the _I-didn't-want-to-ruin-everything-for-you_ defense from me, even though it was true. Edward couldn't get away with the same reasoning, especially since we both knew it was falsety. "If she hadn't wanted you, you would have been falling over yourself to get her back, because there was nothing for you to lose if she rejected you. But she _did_ want you, and you knew it. You probably couldn't stand the possibility of losing that, if she saw you again and didn't choose you the second time around."

Edward stood transfixed, the slight drop to his jaw signaling his shock.

"I swear, being turned at seventeen left you mentally backwards, Edward." I glared at him scornfully. _Jackass._ "All you had to do was walk into her dorm or her classroom or even that bar and sit down with her—I _begged_ you to do it!"

"I was planning to," he murmured, closing his eyes as if to reexamine a painful memory. "At graduation, remember? But she—"

"I remember telling you that was a stupid idea," I reminded him. "But no, you had to play the odds like some gutless, malingering milksop. If you didn't really want her to move on without you, you should have stood up and made some kind of effort. Instead, you forced her into a situation where she had to find her own way out of depression and loneliness; then you started whining about it when she actually _did_."

"Why didn't you come here yourself, then," he demanded, "if you thought you could do a better job making her happy?"

"What was I supposed to say?" I fired back, bitterness lacing my voice. "_I'm sorry my idiot brother left you for your own good. Clearly he was mistaken. He loves you, but he still doesn't want to talk to you. _Yeah, _that_ would have made her put down the whiskey. I can admit that it was a mistake for me not to come back to be with her early on, but even if I had, she didn't need me to apologize _for_ you. I've been apologizing all night and it hasn't done any good. She needed you to do it yourself. She needed you to show her you loved her and wanted her, but you just let her down." I looked up into his face, trying to remember a time when this person was my best friend, the brother I loved, whose counsel I valued enough to leave my sister to her human world where I thought she'd be safe from me, my family's thirst, and my visions. "Why didn't you do it, Edward? You could have been happy, both of you, and she wouldn't be a goddamned alcoholic."

"You can't possibly know that," he murmured, looking at her again over the top of my head. "After a while, she wasn't drinking to remember me anymore, or to forget. She was just…drinking. Because she liked it. How was I supposed to _make_ her stop? Take away her bottle like a baby? She's a grown woman."

_First she's no different than she was at seventeen, now she's a grown woman?_ "Here's an idea: why don't you be a man for a change." I thought of Rosalie, and how she reamed him earlier this evening. She wasn't the only one. "Instead of a pussy."

Edward whipped his widened eyes back to me. "_Alice!_"

"To hell with you, 'brother!' You ruined our lives over this," I growled. "Yours, Bella's, mine, everybody's. It's taken everything I have in me to keep my family together! My marriage went into a downward spiral we almost didn't recover from, Emmett and Rosalie almost left us for good just to get away from the gloom you left in your wake, and it was _years_ before Esme stopped grieving for Bella _and_ you! She and Carlisle nearly filed for a divorce, they were so divided about what to do and how to feel!" Yes, that was the perfect word: _divided._ Between Bella destroying Edward's piano and Edward spending the first three years treating her like a financial obligation rather than someone he wanted to be with, everyone had their own opinions about what was healthy, what was ethical, Bella's personal safety, whether we had a right to invade her privacy, whether the problem would go away with time (as most human-centric problems do), what course of action or inaction would ensure the continued secrecy of our vampirism, and whether that last priority actually made us into the monsters Edward always said we were. The only thing we could all agree on was the need to eliminate Victoria—it was because of us that she wanted revenge, after all, and that obligation was dispatched almost immediately—but all viewpoints diverged after that.

What had once been a happy family that worked in concert, if not in perfect synchronization, was divided into fragments of our formerly loving symphony, thrown out of tune and suddenly unsure of each other. Our cohesive relationship, almost a century in the making, had fallen into disrepair so profound I couldn't bear to tell Bella the truth when she asked me. There was nothing she could have done to resolve our squabbles and tension, really. Even if I'd come to Vancouver, scooped her up, and made off with her to Calgary, the very act of involving her would only have fueled the debate over whether it was wise for us to directly intervene in her life—most of the family didn't want me looking for Bella, even before my vow. So we left her to her own devices (mostly) and tried to let time, and my behind-the-scenes efforts, heal us instead. The rift was never Bella's fault, and repairing it wasn't her cross to bear—_she_ wasn't the one who broke our family and left us in turmoil.

Edward recoiled at my thoughts. "That's right," I said venomously, "you didn't know about any of that. It's all true. Esme even consulted with an attorney four years ago." If I hadn't shared a then-current vision of Bella smiling through her very first dance with Ben in an empty bar, Esme might have gone through with a series of messy divorce proceedings, possibly exposing us all for identity fraud, just to make sure Carlisle got the message: his humans patients weren't all that mattered in the world, and succeeding with them did not make up for failure in the home.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Edward demanded, alarmed.

"Because you didn't _care_!" I retorted. "You've never asked how anyone else was doing. You never even called unless you wanted information or my sympathy. You were too busy mooning over Bella instead of repairing your relationship with her and coming home!"

"I didn't—"

"_What_, Edward? You didn't _what?_" I cut him off. "Did you think that because we aren't human, we aren't subject to changes and upheaval? Even for immortals, a lot can happen when you don't check in for a few years, and it's been three since you called, eight since anyone's seen you. You know the Denali sisters still aren't speaking to us because of the conflict with Laurent after we killed Victoria? We're _lucky_ they didn't sell us out to the Volturi. We could all be dead right now if they had, you and Bella included. As far as Tanya's concerned, we sided against our own cousins in favor of a human you didn't even care about anymore, a situation that could easily have been remedied had you stepped up and claimed Bella as your mate. But no, you had to exile yourself to Siberia and leave us to deal with the aftermath. All because you're a self-absorbed, spineless, scared little boy who couldn't get up enough courage to just talk to Bella, let alone bring her into our family like she wanted." I flounced away from him and hovered over Bella's crumpled, half-naked form. Her naturally floral scent was marred by hops and grain alcohol. _Because of you, Edward. You've pointed your finger at everyone else for years, but all this pain everyone has suffered is because of __**you**__._

"Alice," he said, softer now. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"Don't tell me you're sorry," I ordered curtly, kneeling at Bella's side and gathering her up in my arms. "Fix it. She knows you've been watching her now." Gently, I laid her in her bed and covered her up for warmth, giving her a little kiss on her forehead. "_Oh, my sweet, broken sister,_" I murmured in her ear. "_I am so sorry. You will never know how much._" Even in sleep, she looked troubled. Stroking her hair, I noticed the barest hint of white at the roots, just above her ear. "You've put off this conversation for far too long," I told Edward, "and it's time to rectify that. Stay here, and talk to her when she wakes up, goddamn you."

"Are you sure it's not too late?" Edward asked, his voice pleading for my help.

"It's never too late to do the right thing. But it might be too late to get an ideal result." I looked around and found a sheet of paper and a pen on Bella's desk. Scratching out a quick note, I said, "To answer your real question, I'm not looking ahead for you. I don't do that anymore—in the end, it causes too much pain and trouble, as you've so adamantly pointed out. That's why I made my vow. Bella makes her own decisions now, and she's perfectly capable of making up her own mind about you. I won't help you manipulate her or anyone else ever again."

"But what do I tell her?" He sounded completely genuine. "How do I make this right?"

"Is it really so hard to figure out?" I stuck my note to Bella under a motorcycle-logo-shaped refrigerator magnet. "You've been lying to her and yourself for eight years, Edward. Tell her the truth. If you don't, then God help you, because no one else will."

He gave me a puzzled look. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Remember when we all lived in Forks, and I used to tell you to get over yourself?" I restacked and shoved that filthy money up against the kitchenette backsplash and gave Bella a final glance, cementing her aging face in my memory before I turned away to the door. _You made it perfectly clear that you wanted nothing to do with us, _I thought in Edward's direction._ You said you couldn't stand our happiness, remember? Like we didn't have a right to seek joy or comfort each other or be in love in front of you. You turned your back on being part of a family, and it almost ripped the rest of us apart completely. If anyone still wanted to find you, we'd have done it by now. _"It's taken some time, and I don't think the process will ever be complete, but most of us have gotten over you."

"Alice, wait—"

But I closed the door behind me and flitted to the stairs, unwilling to wait for that snaillike elevator. I sang a song to myself as I moved, one of the tracks from that god-awful-smelling biker bar I found Bella in. I never knew her to sing anything, but she wailed it into her beer and cried like she was in mourning. It made perfect sense to pay tribute to her this way.

"No matter how many tears I've sat here and cried," I whispered the melody, "or how many lies that I've lied telling my poor heart…she'll come back some day…"

When I was miles away from Bella's apartment, well outside my brother's mental radius and in what would be a shady, unpopulated place, I finally allowed myself to think of the note I left for her. Edward would read it, of course—that much didn't require psychic powers to determine.

_Dear Bella,  
__I don't know what will happen between the two of you, and I don't want to influence your decision either way. Whatever you need from me, be it my presence or my absence, I will give.  
__Love you, really,  
__Alice  
__(587) 555-1842_

As I sat there, not caring that my suit got dirty, a large raven woke up, flew down from a low tree branch, and landed fifteen feet away, staring at me. He tilted his little head, as if debating whether I was actually a threat worth crowing about, before silently flying away. Watching him vanish, I thought of the tattoo on Bella's breast, a native interpretation of some kind of bird. Perhaps I was wrong about Bella needing Edward to take care of her—she didn't strike me as the little girl I remembered who needed us to hold her hand through every problem, not anymore, and I found myself doubting my brother's ability to make her happy at all. He might very well agree to change her if she asked, but would that be enough to meet her current needs, whatever those were? She already had a purpose, something most of us were lacking, and acceptance and friendship, as anyone who looked at her photos could see—motorcycle rallies, shots of her with clusters of bikers, a graduation pose with the human girl I remembered as her roommate, a picture of her hugging Charlie at Christmas. She even had love, whether she knew it or not, in her human mate and his child. It was in their eyes, Bella's too, in every single photograph: the world was wonderful when they were together. It was in the way Bella said Ben's name, protective and precious, like he was something pure and she would not allow my kind to taint him.

Whatever choice Bella settled on, I hoped she chose carefully, and that her decision would bring her a joy that would last. One thing I knew for sure: she was going to rip Edward to shreds. The Bella I met tonight was too much woman for him. I did not pity him, nor did I care to warn him any further than I already had. Edward spent years making this bed of nails; he could lie in it.

I took a little time to consider what my next move should be. Bella said I should stop acting like I wasn't responsible for my own choices, and she spoke the truth. And while I could still rightfully say that Edward's arguments—his _blame—_had incited my decision, it was because of my own sense of ethics that I carried on with it. It was my love, my Sight, which brought Edward here like the plague to haunt Bella's steps and prolong her suffering; I really was a meddlesome jinx after all.

Sitting under my tree, I sighed and recited the self-made prayer that was my vow: _My visions are only as useful as the end result of looking…seeking visions of other's lives has always ended in their heartbreak…my gift must only be used to live my own life, not to govern anyone else's…I have no right to bring my curse upon innocent people._

Sometimes I was better able to focus my gift if I had an artifact to touch, like the red wig I'd saved from the day Bella and I stopped at that costume shop, or the piece of broken piano Emmett brought back after he repaired the vandalized Forks mansion. Cell phone in hand, I closed my eyes and sifted through the realm of what might be. Technically I wasn't breaking my promise. I wasn't looking for Bella's future, or Edward's—I was looking for mine.

I looked as the sun came up behind the clouds, while the sunny afternoon passed, and when night fell again. I looked when I stalked a stag in the mountains north of Vancouver, when I finally went back to my hotel, when Esme dry-sobbed as I relayed all that Bella had said about our betrayal, and when we got back to the house in Calgary. At first I checked every day, then twice a week, then twice a month, and eventually only a few times a year or upon my mother's request.

I looked when my father got calls from his estranged son—brief conversations just to check in and ask after everyone, though I never knew if his attention was dutiful or sincere. I looked on one random Saturday in the spring of 2016, my mind registering some significance that I couldn't place. I looked once more not long after, on the day Edward came back to us, miserable, remorseful, and alone, seeking the solace of his family, and Emmett told Edward in no uncertain terms that if he cared so much about the goddamn family all of a sudden he should do something useful, like whore himself out to Tanya. When Edward begged Carlisle and Esme for their forgiveness, I looked. I did it again when they told him they loved him but couldn't deal with the cost of his selfishness anymore and asked him to leave.

Every time I heard that country song, saw a dark-haired native or a Harley-Davidson, or overheard any kind of Indian language, I looked. Each time I made donations to charities and education programs, I looked. Whenever I felt tempted to befriend a human again—especially then—I looked. Every time I moved to a new home, every time I changed my name, every time I fought with the cellular company to keep the same phone number, right up until phone numbers became obsolete, I looked. With every letter I received from Edward from yet another country, and even after the very last note said only _Maybe in my next life, I'll get it right,_ I looked. Long after my sweet husband gently reminded me that too many years had passed, but insisted that it was a good thing, because it meant a life lived without regrets, still I looked.

Bella was never in my future again.

She was in a future made all on her own.

**_End._**


End file.
